"Come to think of it, Tops, I'm hungry! And er-er—well, you know Mistress doesn't always feed us heartily after—um—well—after, you know."
Topsy bobbed the end of her tail understandingly, and Pan grew confidential. "I know where's a dish of cream! It's down—"
The rest of the sentence was whispered so low that I really couldn't tell you what it was; but Topsy understood, and the two hurried away as noiselessly and gracefully,—yes, and as dignifiedly as only cats can hurry.
The desired cream they found on a high shelf in the shed. They were supposed never to enter this place, so Cook had thought it a safe spot in which to set the cream.
A strong jump was needed to reach the shelf; but after several attempts they managed it and lapped, lapped, lapped to their full content.
As they sat blissfully purring after this unusual treat they heard a plaintive "Mew" from the ground close by, and peering down saw a strange cat that had evidently entered through the open window, as they had done. He looked hungry and wistful, while they had just had a delicious meal and were correspondingly pleasant.
"Mrr-ow! Come on up; it's good!" called Pan.
Possibly hunger made the leap easier for this new-comer than for the well-fed cats; possibly he was more agile than they, for with one spring he landed by the saucer and dipping his head eagerly lapped long and fast before he once raised his eyes. When he finished the pink tongue was run out over his lips and whiskers, so that no delicious drop should escape, and he heaved a satisfied sigh.
"Do you—ah—always have such dinners as this?" asked he.
Pan turned his head away and pretended to be interested in a black ant that was crawling rapidly up the wall below him; he was a truthful pussy and preferred to change the subject. The stranger was comfortable and sat lazily waiting for the answer.