“I don’t think that George Washington has his usual kind of mew to-day,” she said, criticisingly. “Don’t you think he squeaks a little?”
Helen listened, with her head on one side.
“Pinch him again, Kenneth,” she said. “Just a little, very carefully. Yes, I think he does squeak. Do you think he is getting rusty inside? He drinks a lot of water, and it made the sewing-machine all rusty when you poured water over it.”
Here George Washington mewed again vigorously, in response to Kenneth’s invitation.
“Where does the mew come from, I wonder,” said Zaidie, thoughtfully, surveying the cat. “Is it in his mouth, or down in his throat?”
She poked her fingers in his mouth, and felt around a little. George Washington rebelled.
“Don’t scratch me, George. I aren’t hurting you a bit,” said Zaidie, reprovingly. “I want to know where your mew is, cause, if it’s getting rusty, I’m going to oil you, same as ’Liza does the machine.”
“Can cats be oiled?” asked Helen, doubtfully.
“Oh, yes, I ’xpect so,” returned Zaidie, cheerfully. “Don’t you think so? Don’t you s’pose they get dried up inside sometimes? Kenneth’s little squeaky lamb does. I’ll get the machine-oiler.”
Marjorie, curled up on the window-seat, did not heed the children’s chatter. Zaidie got the little machine-can, which once, in an evil hour, Eliza had shown her how to use.