“My name is Black-Face,” I said quietly.
“What's that other cat's name that was with you,” he went on; “that stuck-up thing?”
“Was there a stuck-up cat here?” I said innocently looking over my shoulder. “I was not aware of it.”
“You know what I mean,” he said with a grin, “that white-faced mule.”
“Is that your grandmother under the stove?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “I ain't got a relative here. Though I call her grandma and I call her daughter Aunt Tabby. Aunt Tabby's in under the settin'-room sofy.”
I softly walked into the next room. There was a pleasant-faced, very respectable pussy under the sofa. “How do you do?” I said politely to her.
She bowed her head gravely, and threw me a kind glance.
“I hope you won't mind having so many strange cats come here,” I continued.
“Everybody keeps a number of cats around here,” she said simply. “There are so many mice.”