“Hark!” said his mother, holding up her finger.
“Dad!” cried Frankie, rushing to the door and flinging it open. He ran along the passage and opened the staircase door before Owen reached the top of the last flight of stairs.
“Why ever do you come up at such a rate,” reproachfully exclaimed Owen’s wife as he came into the room exhausted from the climb upstairs and sank panting into the nearest chair.
“I al-ways-for-get,” he replied, when he had in some degree recovered. As he lay back in the chair, his face haggard and of a ghastly whiteness, and with the water dripping from his saturated clothing, Owen presented a terrible appearance.
Frankie noticed with childish terror the extreme alarm with which his mother looked at his father.
“You’re always doing it,” he said with a whimper. “How many more times will Mother have to tell you about it before you take any notice?”
“It’s all right, old chap,” said Owen, drawing the child nearer to him and kissing the curly head. “Listen, and see if you can guess what I’ve got for you under my coat.”
In the silence the purring of the kitten was distinctly audible.
“A kitten!” cried the boy, taking it out of its hiding-place. “All black, and I believe it’s half a Persian. Just the very thing I wanted.”
While Frankie amused himself playing with the kitten, which had been provided with another saucer of bread and milk, Owen went into the bedroom to put on the dry clothes, and then, those that he had taken off having been placed with his boots near the fire to dry, he explained as they were taking tea the reason of his late homecoming.