carpet seemed to gather itself together, and the cats dropped off it, as raindrops do from your mackintosh when you shake it. And the carpet disappeared.
Unless you have had 199 well-grown Persian cats in one small room, all hungry, and all saying so in unmistakable mews, you can form but a poor idea of the noise that now deafened the children and the Phoenix. The cats did not seem to have been at all properly brought up. They seemed to have no idea of its being a mistake in manners to ask for meals in a strange house – let alone to howl for them – and they mewed, and they mewed, and they mewed, and they mewed, till the children poked their fingers into their ears and waited in silent agony, wondering why the whole of Camden Town did not come knocking at the door to ask what was the matter, and only hoping that the food for the cats would come before the neighbours did – and before all the secret of the carpet and the Phoenix had to be given away beyond recall to an indignant neighbourhood.
The cats mewed and mewed and twisted their Persian forms in and out and unfolded their Persian tails, and the children and the Phoenix huddled together on the table.
The Phoenix, Robert noticed suddenly, was trembling.
‘So many cats,’ it said, ‘and they might not know I was the Phoenix. These accidents happen so quickly. It quite un-mans me.’
This was a danger of which the children had not thought.
‘Creep in,’ cried Robert, opening his jacket.
And the Phoenix crept in – only just in time, for green eyes had glared, pink noses had sniffed, white whiskers had twitched, and as Robert buttoned his coat he disappeared to the waist in a wave of eager grey Persian fur. And on the instant the good carpet slapped itself down on the floor. And it was covered with rats – 398 of them, I believe, two for each cat.
‘How horrible!’ cried Anthea. ‘Oh, take them away!’
‘Take yourself away,’ said the Phoenix, ‘and me.’
‘I wish we’d never had a carpet,’ said Anthea, in tears.
They hustled and crowded out of the door, and shut it, and locked it. Cyril, with great presence of mind, lit a candle and turned off the gas at the main.
‘The rats’ll have a better chance in the dark,’ he said.
The mewing had ceased. Everyone listened in breathless silence. 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. Everything’s as quiet as a mouse.’
A wild chorus of mews drowned his words, and with the mews were mingled the shrieks of the musk-rats. What had happened? Had the cats tasted them before deciding that they disliked the flavour?
‘I’m a-coming in,’ said the policeman. ‘You’ve got a cat shut up there.’
‘A cat,’ said Cyril. ‘Oh, my only aunt! A cat!’
‘Come in, then,’ said Robert. ‘It’s your own look out. I advise you not. Wait a shake, and I’ll undo the side gate.’
He undid the side gate, and the policeman, very cautiously, came in.
And there in the kitchen, by the light of one candle, with the mewing and the screaming going on like a dozen steam sirens, twenty waiting motor-cars, and half a hundred squeaking pumps, four agitated voices shouted to the policeman four mixed and wholly different explanations of the very mixed events of the evening.
Did you ever try to explain the simplest thing to a policeman?
Chapter VIII.
The Cats, the Cow, and the Burglar
The nursery was full of Persian cats and musk-rats that had been brought there by the wishing carpet. The cats were mewing and the musk-rats were squeaking so that you could hardly hear yourself speak. In the kitchen were the four children, one candle, a concealed Phoenix, and a very visible policeman.
‘Now then, look here,’ said the policeman, very loudly, and he pointed his lantern at each child in turn, ‘what’s the meaning of this here yelling and caterwauling? I tell you you’ve got a cat here, and someone’s a ill-treating of it. What do you mean by it, eh?’
It was five to one, counting the Phoenix; but the policeman, who was one, was of unusually fine size, and the five, including the Phoenix, were small. The mews and the squeaks grew softer, and in the comparative silence, Cyril said:
‘It’s true. There are a few cats here. But we’ve not hurt them. It’s quite the opposite. We’ve just fed them.’
‘It don’t sound like it,’ said the policeman grimly.
‘I daresay they’re not real cats,’ said Jane madly, ‘perhaps they’re only dream-cats.’
‘I’ll dream-cat you, my lady,’ was the brief response of the force.
‘If you understood anything except people who do murders and stealings and naughty things like that, I’d tell you all about it,’ said Robert; ‘but I’m certain you don’t. You’re not meant to shove your oar into people’s private cat-keepings. You’re only supposed to interfere when people shout “murder” and “stop thief” in the street. So there!’
The policeman assured them that he should see about that; and at this point the Phoenix, who had been making itself small on the pot-shelf under the dresser, among the saucepan lids and the fish-kettle, walked on tip-toed claws in a noiseless and modest manner, and left the room unnoticed by any one.
‘Oh, don’t be so horrid,’ Anthea was saying, gently and earnestly. ‘We love cats – dear pussy-soft things. We wouldn’t hurt them for worlds. Would we, Pussy?’
And Jane answered that of course they wouldn’t. And still the policeman seemed unmoved by their eloquence.
‘Now, look here,’ he said, ‘I’m a-going to see what’s in that room beyond there, and—’
His voice was drowned in a wild burst of mewing and squeaking. And as soon as it died down all four children began to explain at once; and though the squeaking and mewing were not at their very loudest, yet there was quite enough of both to make