“I shouldn’t be surprised if there was some sort of blight in that tree,” he said. “It would account for the premature dropping of the acorns and for the insects that attacked me.”
“Exactly,” said the Vicar irritably, as yet another acorn hit him. William’s aim was unerring.
Here a diversion was caused by the maid who came out to lay the table. They watched her in silence. The Vicar moved his chair again, and William, after pocketing his friend the caterpillar, shifted his position in the tree again to get a better aim.
“Do you know,” said the Bishop, “I believe that there is a cat in the tree. Several times I have heard a slight rustling.”
It would have been better for William to remain silent, but William’s genius occasionally misled him. He was anxious to prevent investigation; to prove once for all his identity as a cat.
He leant forward and uttered a re-echoing “Mi-aw-aw-aw!”
As imitations go it was rather good.
There was a slight silence. Then:
“It is a cat,” said the Bishop in triumph.
“Excuse me, my Lord,” said the Vicar.