`It will only be a little longer, Peter,' Jennie said. `But everybody would be most upset if we didn't stop and make ourselves known. Remember, we are strangers here. Come, walk quietly with me around the right side of the square and we'll see what they are saying. We'll tune in on them.'
Peter did not wholly understand what Jennie meant by this until they passed the area-way of No. 2A where lived the janitor who was also the caretaker and keeper of the key for the tiny gardens. And there for the first time he encountered the wonders of feline communication by whisker antenna. It was like broadcasting. They thought something, and in a moment you knew what they were saying, or thinking of saying, at any rate, because it came in through your whiskers or the vibrissae or feeler hairs growing out from above your eyes. Then you thought the reply, and it went out to them. It operated only over short distances and one actually had to be close to the cat with whom one was communicating, but work it did.
For while the caretaker was not at home, his cat was, seated behind the window, and Peter was delighted to recognize the big black tom with the white patch on his chest and the enormous green eyes that he had seen so often when he lived near the Square. It was then he realized that the cat behind the window was broadcasting to them, for the window being closed he couldn't hear him, but he knew as plain as day that he had said: `Mr. Black is the name. Blackie, for short. I rather run things around here. Are you strays, or home cats from another neighbourhood visiting?'
Peter felt Jennie reply politely, `Strays, sir.'
'Hm!' The large round eyes were staring at them fixedly through the glass of the window-pane as Mr. Black radioed the next question: `Just passing through, or were you thinking of stopping off?'
Peter could contain himself no longer, and quite forgetting Jennie's early admonition, sent out on his own wavelength `Oh, but I live here. I mean, just north in the Mews. Don't you remember me? I'm Peter Brown from No. 1A…. My father is Colonel Brown, and-'
Mr. Black interrupted. He had a most suspicious look on his face. `Peter Brown, eh? Can't say I've ever seen you before in my life, and I rather know everybody around here. Never knew the Browns to keep a cat. They used to have a small boy, but he's gone away. Look here, my smart friend, if you're trying to crash this neighbourhood under false pretences, let me tell you-'
But here, fortunately, the quick-thinking Jennie intervened with, `Please, sir, it's what my friend imagines. That's his imagining game. He's always playing it.’
'Ah well,' said Mr. Black, 'as long as that's all it is. We're not snobs in this neighbourhood, but we're rather full up on strays at the moment.'
`We're just back from Glasgow,' Jennie commented, rather irrelevantly it seemed to Peter, who had yet to learn how well she knew what she was about and that above all cats must be kept interested.
Mr. Black was interested. `Glasgow. You don't say. I used to know some cats there. How did you come down?'
Peter had recovered from his mistake and felt that he could answer this. Proudly he sent forth: 'We shipped out,' using a phrase he had learned from listening to the sailors aboard the Countess. `Countess of Greenock-Glasgow: London …'
Mr. Black looked impressed. `Well, well,' he said. `Ship's cats. You two probably know your way about, then. I used to belong to a sailor once—well, a kind of a sailor, perhaps more of a deckhand person. He worked on the ferry that runs between Devonport and Torcross. Did you know that that operated on a cable that ran under the water from one shore to the other?'
Jennie indicated politely that she didn't, and that she had never heard of such an amazing thing!
`Well, it did,' insisted Mr. Black. `I don't suppose you would call that sailing, exactly, but it does give us something in common in a way, so I suppose it will be all right for you to stay. The bombed premises at No. 38 is where most everyone live. You tell them I said it was all right for you to be there. And mind you, see that you obey the rules of the neighbourhood, or out you go, both of you. The principal one to remember is no tipping over of dustbins at night. The residents don't like it and complain to Mr. Clegg. He's the man who does for me. He owns the park and the square and everything. And no fighting! That disturbs the residents too. If you must fight, go over to Wigmore Street, or Manchester Square. There's fighting goes on there all the time. We try to keep our neighbourhood quiet and respectable. There are two spinsters who live down at No. 52 who are susceptible and will give you milk occasionally if you ask piteously enough. What did you `say Your names were?'
'Jennie Baldrin,' Jennie replied. `I'm part Scottish, you know, and my friend's name is Peter, and-'
`Right you are,' interrupted Mr. Black. `Carry on then . . and he fell to washing vigorously.
`There now,' Jennie said with quiet satisfaction as they went on slowly. `You see? Now we know we have a place to go, just in case. Greetings to you, my dears. Long life and good health to you both.'
These last two remarks were addressed to the two greys with the ring tails and lyre markings on their heads, who sat sunning in the ground-floor window of No. 5 just as they always had when Peter lived in the neighbourhood, washing, blinking, purring, and with their eyes following the people who came and went.
Their reply to Jennie's polite salutation as it came wafted through the window was soft and sleepy and often it was difficult to tell which one was talking.
`I'm Chin.'
`I'm Chilla.'
`We're twins.'
`We're actually Ukrainian.'
`We're never allowed to go out of the house.' `Have you talked to Mr. Black?'
Since this was the first question addressed to them and seemed to emanate from both, Peter took it upon himself to reply and said, `Yes, we have. He was very kind and said we might stay.'
If a sniff can be broadcast, that was what seemed to come over to Peter's and Jennie's whiskers next. 'Hmph! Well! We always say we don't know what this neighbourhood is coming to. It was different when we moved in. Exclusive.'
`Remember, no tipping over of dustbins …' `Strays!!!'
`Long life and good health to you both!' Jennie murmured once more, politely, as they passed out of sight, and then added-,Stupid snobs …!' From No. 5 came the vibrations of low and angry growling.
`Pedigree indeed,' said Jennie. `I'd like to know how far back they go and what their ancestors looked like when mine were gods in Egypt. And where is the Ukraine, anyway?'
`I think it's in Russia,' said Peter, who was not very sure, 'or maybe Turkey.'
`Russians!' Jennie said indignantly. `And they talk about what the neighbourhood is coming to …'
`Long life, good health and much comfort to you,' Peter said as he had been taught, to the ginger cat with light green eyes, squatted behind the iron rail in front of No. 11, with its tail neatly wrapped around it. This he knew was the cat of Mrs. Bobbit, the caretaker. He had seen it there often and had even stroked it. But now he went up and touched noses.
The ginger said, `Well spoken, youngster. It's nice to find somebody left with manners these days. You've been properly taught. Remember, there's nothing quite like manners to get you on in the world. I've been very cross this morning, and would as soon have knocked you ears over tail as not, until you spoke so softly. Wuzzy is the name. I suppose you've seen Mr. Black?'