Then she heard the burglar draw a long breath, and he spoke.
‘It’s a judgement,’ he said, ‘so help me bob if it ain’t. Oh, ‘ere’s a thing to ‘appen to a chap! Makes it come ‘ome to you, don’t it neither? Cats an’ cats an’ cats. There couldn’t be all them cats. Let alone the cow. If she ain’t the moral of the old man’s Daisy. She’s a dream out of when I was a lad—I don’t mind ‘er so much. ‘Ere, Daisy, Daisy?’
The cow turned and looked at him.
‘SHE’S all right,’ he went on. ‘Sort of company, too. Though them above knows how she got into this downstairs parlour. But them cats—oh, take ‘em away, take ‘em away! I’ll chuck the ‘ole show—Oh, take ‘em away.’
‘Burglar,’ said Jane, close behind him, and he started convulsively, and turned on her a blank face, whose pale lips trembled. ‘I can’t take those cats away.’
‘Lor’ lumme!’ exclaimed the man; ‘if ‘ere ain’t another on ‘em. Are you real, miss, or something I’ll wake up from presently?’
‘I am quite real,’ said Jane, relieved to find that a lisp was not needed to make the burglar understand her. ‘And so,’ she added, ‘are the cats.’
‘Then send for the police, send for the police, and I’ll go quiet. If you ain’t no realler than them cats, I’m done, spunchuck—out of time. Send for the police. I’ll go quiet. One thing, there’d not be room for ‘arf them cats in no cell as ever I see.’
He ran his fingers through his hair, which was short, and his eyes wandered wildly round the roomful of cats.
‘Burglar,’ said Jane, kindly and softly, ‘if you didn’t like cats, what did you come here for?’