When they rose, thirty-six dead bush rats lay in a heap directly under the hole in the roof.
“And they told us nobody lived here!” remarked Jim. “That’s a great bag, though. Man,––if only they were rabbits!”
“How do you suppose they come to make this room their shelter?” asked Phil.
“Easy enough! They evidently come in from the outside between the logs and the shiplap to the loft above. They have made a run along by the beams there and down that board running from the roof to the floor and propping up the wall there; then they make over the floor to that hole, and into the stable where the litter and feed is.”
“Great stuff!” commented Phil.
“Ay,––ay!” said Jim wearily, “but I can see where most of my time is going to be occupied in keeping the house to ourselves.”
They were late in getting about that morning, but, fortunately, Ah Sing had been around and was putting the finishing touches to a breakfast for two.
Three ugly black cats were at the Chinaman’s legs with erect tails, rubbing their backs against him in feline glee every moment he stopped shuffling over the floor.
“Hullo, Sing;––pretty early! Think maybe best you cook dinner night-time––one meal every day––no cookem breakfast. We makem breakfast,” said Jim, as he picked up one cat after another by the neck and solemnly dropped them out at the front door.