We all know that cats eat rats--it is one of the first things we
read in our little brown reading books; but all those cats eating
all those rats--it wouldn't bear thinking of.
Suddenly Robert sniffed, in the silence of the dark kitchen, where
the only candle was burning all on one side, because of the
draught.
'What a funny scent!' he said.
And as he spoke, a lantern flashed its light through the window of
the kitchen, a face peered in, and a voice said--
'What's all this row about? You let me in.'
It was the voice of the police!
Robert tip-toed to the window, and spoke through the pane that had
been a little cracked since Cyril accidentally knocked it with a
walking-stick when he was playing at balancing it on his nose. (It
was after they had been to a circus.)
'What do you mean?' he said. 'There's no row. You listen;
everything's as quiet as quiet.' And indeed it was.
The strange sweet scent grew stronger, and the Phoenix put out its
beak.
The policeman hesitated.
'They're MUSK-rats,' said the Phoenix. 'I suppose some cats eat
them--but never Persian ones. What a mistake for a well-informed
carpet to make! Oh, what a night we're having!'
'Do go away,' said Robert, nervously. 'We're
just going to bed--that's our bedroom candle; there isn't any row.
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