“Which of your nine lives are you living, kitty?” I asked, endeavoring to give her a caress which she avoided. The cat had never admitted that I lived in her house.
“It might have been her you heard,” said Mrs. Dove, pouring out a saucer of milk.
“If it was, she and Mattie are the same thing.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Dove sharply.
But I was too worn out to explain.
“I don’t know anything about such things,” said Mrs. Dove impatiently, “and don’t you go thinking that you do, either. All I know is that if you had put the cat down cellar, you could be sure it wasn’t her prowling around.”
“Cellar? Why, there is no cellar.”
“Isn’t there?” asked Mrs. Dove. “Where did you think you was going to put the jelly?”
“I hadn’t thought.”
The captain’s wing had so much space beneath it that, were it not for the rubbish stored there, a cow could have walked under the floor without grazing her horns. The rest of the house stood on open brick piles.