There was a crash of crockery from the back kitchen. Emma
fled out, leaving the door unlocked. After she had picked up several
broken plates, which had unaccountably slipped from the shelves, she
returned and locked the pantry door.
William, in the darkness within, heaved a sigh of relief. He was in,
anyway; how he was going to get out he wasn't quite sure. He stood for
a few minutes in rapt admiration of his own cleverness. He'd scored
off cook! Crumbs! He'd scored off cook! So far, at any rate. The first
thing to do was to find the cream blanc-mange. He found it at last and
sat down with it on the bread-pan to consider his next step.
Suddenly he became aware of two green eyes staring at him in the
darkness. The cat was in too! Crumbs! The cat was in too! The cat,
recognising its inveterate enemy, set up a vindictive wail. William
grew cold with fright. The rotten old cat was going to give the show
away!
"Here, Pussy! Good ole Pussy!" he whispered hoarsely. "Nice ole Pussy!
Good ole Pussy!"
The cat gazed at him in surprise. This form of address from William
was unusual.
"Good ole Pussy!" went on William feverishly. "Shut up, then. Here's
some nice blanc-mange. Just have a bit. Go on, have a bit and shut
up."
He put the dish down on the larder floor before the cat, and the cat,
after a few preliminary licks, decided that it was good. William sat
watching for a bit. Then he came to the conclusion that it was no use
wasting time, and began to sample the plates around him.
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