“Will you come in and have some breakfast?” asked the Judge, motioning hospitably toward the open door.
“Sir,” she said, grandly, “I knows my duty. Never a Tingsby but Airy’ll enter your front door, nor back door, nuther. But we’ll process up an’ have a look at the stable an’ Brick, bein’ as we’re all together,” and with a solemn curtsy of farewell she swept her brood off the front steps and round the corner of the house toward the stable.
“Higby,” said the Judge, entering the hall, “go quickly to the stable with a basket of doughnuts and the supply of coffee for breakfast. Tell cook to make fresh for me.”
CHAPTER XX
The Cat Man and the Judge’s Family
Late one afternoon Barry Mafferty, the cat man, left the island out in the river where he kept his handsome cats for sale, and quickly rowed himself toward the city.
The winter was passing away, the spring was coming. There was a feeling in the air. Barry could not describe it, as fluent as he was in the use of words.
The feeling was not a warm feeling, for the air was still chilly. Perhaps it was not a feeling, but a look—a look as of a departing, reluctant season. Barry did not know.
“Anyhow,” he murmured to himself, “the cold days are going, the warm ones are coming. Something tells me, something turns my thoughts to green grass and running water, to gardens and flowers—it is faith.”
He looked over his shoulder toward the city. “Just a good size,” he murmured, “not small enough to be stupid, and not large enough to be oppressive. Looks well this evening, too—enveloped in that red, smoky haze.”
In a short time he was abreast of the fish market. The old caretaker there always took charge of his boat when he came to the city.