He confided his plan to the landlady, and she helped him to carry it out. The lodger had nailed a piece of cloth along the top of the doorway to keep out the draught; but this Bert succeeded in tearing away, and then there was room for him to push the pieces of meat through. He soon heard sounds that told him that the cat was snapping them up as they fell. In this way he got a good meal. He still continued to mew, for he missed his master and disliked the confinement; but gradually his cries grew fainter, till at last they ceased.
"I suppose he has gone to sleep," thought Bert. "Well, I'm glad I remembered that hole. I can keep him from starving anyhow."
Then he went off to get his own dinner, which was not a very sumptuous repast.
When he came back from selling his papers late that evening, he found that the cat needed his supper, and was announcing the fact by loud and piercing mews. Bert hastened to beg some food for him from the landlady, and then proceeded to feed him as before. He was standing on a chair, stretching upward on tip-toe in order to supply the cat's wants, when he was startled by a voice which said:
"What are you doing at my door?"
Bert started, and almost fell off the chair. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the old sailor descending the steps.
"I'm feeding your cat," he said; "I—I didn't know you was coming home to-night."
"Nor did I mean to," he said. "It's just my cat that has brought me back. I can't think how I came to forget him. I couldn't bear to think of the poor beastie being shut up here without food or drink."
"Well, I never!" exclaimed the landlady, leaning over from the doorstep above. "To think of your coming back, all the way from Liverpool, Mr. Corney, just for the sake of an old cat! And you meant to stay there three days!"
The old sailor smiled, and made no attempt to defend his conduct as he advanced to where Bert was stationed.