"He wouldn't catch mice," Sarah declared feelingly. "Would you, darling? He's too nice for that," and she sat down in the cretonne-covered rocker again, holding the cat in her arms.
"No cat is worth his board, to my way of thinking, who doesn't catch mice and rats," retorted Mrs. King. "Garry used to be a famous mouser."
"I guess the poor mice want to live," Sarah protested, stroking the thick fur of the purring cat with a practised hand.
"It's a question of human beings living, or the mice," declared Mrs. King. "Of course if you want the mice to move into your house and you move out, that's another matter. Till I get ready to do that, I'm going to set traps in the pantry every night and leave Garry shut up in the kitchen."
"Just like Winnie," murmured the hapless Sarah.
"Seems to me you ought to run a zoo," said Mrs. King glancing curiously over her spectacles at the small girl rocking the fat cat. "Though how you're going to keep the mice and the cats and the snakes and the tigers all happy and contented together, is more than I'm able to figure out."
"I could make 'em love each other," said Sarah confidently.
"I don't know about that," argued Mrs. King. "Even in the circus they can't bring that about. Mr. Robinson would tell you that," and she pointed to the stout man who was still asleep in his chair.
"Who's that?" whispered Sarah, wondering why anyone should want to sleep with a handkerchief over his face.
"That's Mr. Robinson, dearie," replied Mrs. King, her swift fingers never pausing in their work. "He's advance agent for the circus."