We worked hard and rapidly, so that when the sun went down, Jack and I
returned to the bower with four stout oars, which required little to be
done to them save a slight degree of polishing with the knife. As we
drew near, we were suddenly arrested by the sound of a voice. We were
not a little surprised at this--indeed, I may almost say alarmed; for,
although Peterkin was undoubtedly fond of talking, we had never up to
this time found him talking to himself. We listened intently, and still
heard the sound of a voice, as if in conversation. Jack motioned me to
be silent, and, advancing to the bower on tip-toe, we peeped in.
The sight that met our gaze was certainly not a little amusing. On the
top of a log which we sometimes used as a table sat the black cat, with
a very demure expression on its countenance, and in front of it,
sitting on the ground with his legs extended on either side of the log,
was Peterkin. At the moment we saw him, he was gazing intently into the
cat's face, with his nose about four inches from it, his hands being
thrust into his breeches pockets.
"Cat," said Peterkin, turning his head a little on one side, "I love
you!"
There was a pause, as if Peterkin awaited a reply to this affectionate
declaration. But the cat said nothing.
"Do you hear me?" cried Peterkin sharply. "I love you--I do! Don't you
love me?"
To this touching appeal the cat said "Mew" faintly.
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