Miss Milly said as she watched him from her window, walking off with his new hat on, Tom crawled out from under the sofa, and, mounting the arm of her chair, said in cat language, "Don't he look just like Cousin Robert?" Miss Milly said that when her father came home, Tom ran to meet him; then he took his master's slippers, and carried them to his chair. "What means this unusual demonstration?" asked his master. Tom hung his head and walked under the chair. Then, when his master was seated, he crawled out, and, mounting to the arm of his chair, rubbed against his shoulder. Secure of his position, he looked around on them, as if to say, "Now tell all you know." With his large eyes fixed on their faces, he enjoyed over again his adventures, wagging his tail in recognition of the telling points in the story they related to their father. His master said: "Tom's ancestors must have been in the hat trade, he is so fond of hats. We shall have to establish a branch of the business, and make Tom the head. If he goes on in this way, we cannot find hats enough to pay his debts." Tom enjoyed it, looking at Miss Milly as if to say, "Don't I do it to keep up her spirits?" He did not come in contact with Pat for some time, for Pat prudently kept out of his way. His cunning only slumbered, however. They called it turning over a new leaf; but one day he came out with a new joke on Pat. "Looking from my window," Miss Milly said, "one morning, I saw quite an army of cats assembled around the plank walk leading to the swill house. Tom, seated on the highest post in the yard, surveyed them with great satisfaction, which was shown by the proud elevation of his head. "His most gracious manner was explained when Pat, coming in, dispersed them, and a long array of bones was exposed to view--the remains of the feast Tom had invited them to partake of. "Pat could not do justice to the subject. Shaking his fist at Tom, who never winked, but gazed with solemn eyes at him, he said: 'Ye mane crathur, ye are a human for spite, picking out the best for the old alley cats ye hates. I will get a dog.' Tom only yawned, and said as plain as cat could say, 'How tiresome!' After he had watched poor Pat picking up the leavings, muttering all the time hatred of his enemy, he came to me for approval. My mother being in the room, she put him in the attic, telling him he ought to be punished by solitary confinement. "He soon procured his release by making such a racket over my head, running about, upsetting marbles, then chasing them about, that I was very glad to open the door and say, 'You bad cat, come down.' He came when he got ready, very slowly, and was quite cool to me, though I told him he had made my head ache with his racket.