It was a dead kitten. I had never known a
dead cat to bring me anything but bad luck, and here was one washed in
at my very feet.
Mr. Reynolds came back soon, and reported the house quiet and in
order.
"But I found Peter shut up in one of the third-floor rooms," he said.
"Did you put him there?"
I had not, and said so; but as the dog went everywhere, and the door
might have blown shut, we did not attach much importance to that at
the time.
Well, the skiff was gone, and there was no use worrying about it until
morning. I went back to the sofa to keep warm, but I left my candle
lighted and my door open. I did not sleep: the dead cat was on my
mind, and, as if it were not bad enough to have it washed in at my
feet, about four in the morning Peter, prowling uneasily, discovered
it and brought it in and put it on my couch, wet and stiff, poor
little thing!
I looked at the clock. It was a quarter after four, and except for
the occasional crunch of one ice-cake hitting another in the yard,
everything was quiet. And then I heard the stealthy sound of oars in
the lower hall.
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