After a few moments' consultation we decided to ask Pat if he had seen anything of the kittens.
"Sure they may have strayed away in the night."
"But they couldn't walk. They were only three days old," I objected.
"That's thrue, Mister Tom; but thin a cat's a cunnin' cratur. To see wan of thim blinkin' by the fire all day ye'd niver think they could make the noise they do at night; and they'd be concealin' their strength in the daytime to use it at night," answered Pat.
Plainly there was nothing to be learned from Pat.
After thinking it over for a while, Charlie suggested that we hunt up the young ones. We started toward the grove behind the barn with a vague idea that people generally got lost in forests, and that it would be quite possible for the kittens to have lost themselves in the grove.
"Maybe they have hid in the tree," suggested Charlie.
"They couldn't get there," I answered.
"But Pat said that they could do more in the night," urged Charlie.
I was eleven years old, and was half inclined to doubt Pat's reasoning, the more that I remembered hearing my father exclaim when we announced the discovery of the kittens: