“Gracious, no!” cried Sir Maurice. “I only thought that you might possibly induce her to humbug herself.”
The Twins looked at him doubtfully: there seemed to them more in his words than met the ear.
“You must be wanting your dinner dreadfully,” said Mrs. Dangerfield. “And I’m afraid there’s very little for you. But I’ll make you an omelette.”
“I can not dine amid this yowling,” said Sir Maurice firmly, waving his hand over the vocal baskets. “These animals must be placed out of hearing, or I shan’t be able to eat a morsel.”
“We’ll put them in the cats’ home,” said the Terror quickly. “I’ll just put on a pair of thick gloves. Wiggins’ father—he’s a higher mathematician, you know, and understands all this kind of thing—says that hydrophobia is very rare among cats. But it’s just as well to be careful with these London ones.”
“Oh, lord, I never thought of that,” said Sir Maurice with a shudder. “I’ve been risking my life as well!”
The Terror put on the gloves and lighted a lantern. He and Erebus helped carry the cats down to the home; and he put them into hutches. Their uncle was much impressed by the arrangement of the home.
The cats disposed of, Sir Maurice at last recovered his wonted self-possession—a self-possession as admirable as the serenity of the Terror, but not so durable. At dinner he reduced his appreciative kinsfolk to the last exhaustion by his entertaining account of his parleying with his excited fellow travelers. He could now view it with an impartial mind. After dinner he accompanied the Terror to the cats’ home and helped him feed the newcomers with scraps. The rest of the evening passed peacefully and pleasantly.
If the Twins had a weakness, it was that their desire for thoroughness sometimes caused them to overdo things; and it was on the way to bed that the brilliant idea flashed into the mind of Erebus.
She stopped short on the stairs, and with an air of inspiration said: “We ought to have more cats.”