“She good cat,” expostulated Chang, in his high voice. “Vel good catty. Catch mice. Catch lats. Keep house flee of ’em. Gland cat. Can’t get um fat; no matt’ how much eat. Not built fat. Just like Mist’ Fenno.” A grunt of disgust from behind him made Chang spin about in apprehensive haste. Old Joel Fenno had come padding up to the house for dinner, from one of the sheep pastures. He arrived at the kitchen stoop in time to hear his spare figure compared by the Chinaman to that of the scarecrow cat. Though without normal vanity, Joel was not pleased. And the grunt would have been followed by more vehement expressions of distaste had not Chang scuttled nervously into the kitchen, tucking the multicolored cat under his yellow arm as he ran. Presently, out through the doorway issued the sound of many pans clattering. Dinner was in active preparation. Joel poured water from a pail into a tin basin on the stoop-floor; and began to scrub his dirty hands with a lump of smelly yellow soap. Royce had washed; and was starting into the house when a scamper of galloping feet announced the arrival of Treve. The dog had been helping Toni, the chief shepherd, and the latter’s squat black collie, Zit, in No. 3 pasture, that morning with the management of a new and fractious bunch of merinos. But--as ever, unless he had orders to the contrary--the big dog had trotted home, promptly at lunch-time. Always he lay on the floor, at Royce Mack’s left side, during meals; and occasionally a scrap of food from his master’s plate rewarded his presence. Royce stooped to pat the dog, as Treve pattered to the porch. The collie looked past his master, up at the narrow adobe shelf which stood fully four feet above the level of the floor. He seemed keenly interested in that shelf. There was a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. Joel Fenno, gouging the soapy water out of his own eyes, caught the dog’s expression. Following the collie’s quizzical gaze, Joel noted that the edge of the tin dish projected an inch or so over the edge of the shelf. In picking up the cat, Chang unconsciously had joggled it forward. While Fenno still watched, Treve arose upon his hindlegs, his white forepaws resting lightly against the wall. Taking the edge of the tin dish daintily between his jaws he dropped to earth again; depositing the dish on the floor in front of him. Then, after a single disappointed glance at the empty receptacle, Treve walked away. Royce Mack looked after him, with speculative amusement. Then an idea dawned on him. He picked up the dish and turned to the open doorway. “Chang!” he called. “Fill this.” The Chinaman, delighted that his adored cat was apparently arousing so much interest in Royce, hastened to fill the dish to the brim and replace it on the high shelf. After which he returned to the kitchen to find the cat and bring her out to feast. Meantime, Joel Fenno snorted contempt at his partner’s prodigal waste of milk and at his interest in a mere cat.