'But what _is_ a beak? And why should I buy its cat?' 'A beak's a master. Surely you know that. You see, Prater's got a cat lately, and the beast strolls in and raids the studies. Got round over half a pound of prime sausages in here the other night, and he's always bagging things everywhere. You'd be doing everyone a kindness if you would take him on. He'll get lynched some day if you don't. Besides, you want a cat for your new house, surely. Keep down the mice, and that sort of thing, you know. This animal's a demon for mice.' This was a telling argument. Trentham's sister had lately been married, and she certainly had had some idea of investing in a cat to adorn her home. 'As for beetles,' continued the invalid, pushing home his advantage, 'they simply daren't come out of their lairs for fear of him.' 'If he eats beetles,' objected his sister, 'he can't have a very good coat.' 'He doesn't eat them. Just squashes them, you know, like a policeman. He's a decent enough beast as far as looks go.' 'But if he steals things--' 'No, don't you see, he only does that here, because the Praters don't interfere with him and don't let us do anything to him. He won't try that sort of thing on with you. If he does, get somebody to hit him over the head with a boot-jack or something. He'll soon drop it then. You might as well, you know. The House'll simply black your boots if you do.' 'But would Mr Prater let me have the cat?' 'Try him, anyhow. Pitch it fairly warm, you know. Only cat you ever loved, and that sort of thing.' 'Very well. I'll try.' 'Thanks, awfully. And, I say, you might just look in here on your way out and report.' Mrs James Williamson, nee Miss Trentham, made her way dutifully to the Merevale's part of the House. Mrs Prater had expressed a hope that she would have some tea before catching her train. With tea it is usual to have milk, and with milk it is usual, if there is a cat in the house, to have feline society. Captain Kettle, which was the name thought suitable to this cat by his godfathers and godmothers, was on hand early. As he stood there pawing the mat impatiently, and mewing in a minor key, Mrs Williamson felt that here was the cat for her. He certainly was good to look upon. His black heart was hidden by a sleek coat of tabby fur, which rendered stroking a luxury. His scheming brain was out of sight in a shapely head. 'Oh, what a lovely cat!' said Mrs Williamson. 'Yes, isn't he,' agreed Mrs Prater. 'We are very proud of him.' 'Such a beautiful coat!' 'And such a sweet purr!' 'He looks so intelligent. Has he any tricks?' Had he any tricks! Why, Mrs Williamson, he could do everything except speak. Captain Kettle, you bad boy, come here and die for your country. Puss, puss.