"Come on," said Robert. "Come and look after cats while somebody's being killed outside." For Robert had an inside feeling that told him quite plainly who it was that was screaming.
"You young rip!" said the policeman. "I'll settle up with you bimeby."
And he rushed out; and the children heard his boots going weightily along the pavement, and the screams also going along rather ahead of the policeman, and both the murder-screams and the policeman's boots faded away in the remote distance.
Then Robert smacked his knickerbockers loudly with his palm, and said:—
"Good old Phœnix! I should know its golden voice anywhere."
And then everyone understood how cleverly the Phœnix had caught at what Robert had said about the real work of a policeman being to look after murderers and thieves, and not after cats, and all hearts were filled with admiring affection.
"THE POLICEMAN STOPPED, WITH ONE REGULATION BOOT POISED IN THE AIR."
"But he'll come back," said Anthea, mournfully, "as soon as he finds the murderer is only a bright vision of a dream, and there isn't one at all really."
"No, he won't," said the soft voice of the clever Phœnix, as he flew in. "He does not know where your house is. I heard him own as much to a fellow-mercenary. Oh! what a night we are having! Lock the door, and let us rid ourselves of this intolerable smell of the perfume peculiar to the musk-rat and to the house of the trimmers of beards. If you'll excuse me I will go to bed. I am worn out."