There was a mystery about the spilled water. It had apparently disappeared entirely, though the day seemed hardly dry enough for total evaporation. Then she saw it standing in a puddle by the wall fully ten feet away from the bowl. She made a quick deduction and frowned a bit worriedly. "I never realized the kitchen floor sloped _that_ much," she told Old Horsemeat after dinner. "Maybe some beams need to be jacked up in the basement. I'd hate to think of collapsing into it while I cooked dinner." "I'm sure this house finished all its settling thirty years ago," her husband assured her hurriedly. "That slope's always been there." "Well, if you say so," Kitty-Come-Here allowed doubtfully. Next day she found Gummitch's bowl upset again and the remains of the boiled water in a puddle across the room. As she mopped it up, she began to do some thinking without benefit of Concentration Box. * * * * * That evening, after Old Horsemeat and Sissy had vehemently denied kicking into the water bowl or stepping on its edge, she voiced her conclusions. "I think _Gummitch_ upsets it," she said. "He's rejecting it. It still doesn't taste right to him and he wants to show us." "Maybe he only likes it after it's run across the floor and got seasoned with household dust and the corpses of germs," suggested Old Horsemeat, who believed most cats were bohemian types. "I'll have you know I _scrub_ that linoleum," Kitty-Come-Here asserted. "Well, with detergent and scouring powder, then," Old Horsemeat amended resourcefully. Kitty-Come-Here made a scornful noise. "I still want to know where he gets his liquids," she said. "He's been off milk for weeks, you know, and he only drinks a little broth when I give him that. Yet he doesn't seem dehydrated. It's a real mystery and--" "Maybe he's built a still in the attic," Old Horsemeat interjected. "--and I'm going to find the answers," Kitty-Come-Here concluded, ignoring the facetious interruption. "I'm going to find out _where_ he gets the water he does drink and _why_ he rejects the water I give him. This time I'm going to boil it and put in a pinch of salt. Just a pinch." "You make animals sound more delicate about food and drink than humans," Old Horsemeat observed. "They probably are," his wife countered. "For one thing they don't smoke, or drink Martinis. It's my firm belief that animals--cats, anyway--like good food just as much as we do. And the same sort of good food. They don't enjoy canned catfood any more than we would, though they _can_ eat it. Just as we could if we had to. I really don't think Gummitch would have such a passion for raw horsemeat except you started him on it so early." "He probably thinks of it as steak tartare," Old Horsemeat said. Next day Kitty-Come-Here found her salted offering upset just as the two previous bowls had been. * * * * *