He gave them a treat. He brushed their coats. He read to them about bug and bird voices in Hawthorne's book, then toted them to the gazebo to experience bugs and birds firsthand. For himself he took the cell phone and some chocolate chip cookies.
All three of them seemed to feel a strangeness in the atmosphere. Everything was still, as if waiting for something. The sky, though sunny, was a sick yellow.
Then the phone calls started.
Clarissa called to say that her friend Vicki was arriving in late afternoon and was excited about adopting a kitten but would be unable to stay for Monday's parade because she was starting a new job on Tuesday at an important ad agency.
Qwilleran commented, "For anyone who has seen the Tournament of Roses in California, the Tournament of Peonies in Pickax will be no great loss."
Then Polly called praising Qwilleran for his noble offer to handle the auction and regretting that she could not attend; she had to work. She mentioned that Dundee had been acting freakish all day, as if he sensed a change in the weather.
In late afternoon Wetherby Goode phoned, saying in glum tones, "They're gonna shoot the weatherman for sure when they hear the six PM forecast."
Qwilleran said, "Better come here for a nip before you go to the station, Joe - since you predict this may be the last we'll ever hear."
He carried everyone and everything indoors to hear the bad news.
"The sad truth is this," said the meteorologist when he was seated at the bar with a drink and a bowl of mixed nuts. "That storm front that's been stalled over Canada all summer is starting to move over the lakes. It should hit here Sunday. High winds, torrential rain! What they call a Northern Hurricane. You might as well cancel The Big Burning. People won't want to drive. The rain comes in sheets. We can expect power outages. Does this barn have a generator? If not, better move back to the Village temporarily. We're equipped to take care of blackouts. And our streets are paved."
Qwilleran said, "I hope your weathercast tonight isn't going to scare the public away from my auction tomorrow."
"No, it's intended to give them time to stock up on flashlight batteries, canned soup, and cat and dog food."
On Saturday morning, the Forty Famous Felines were being transported in their group cages to the community hall, where they were given a light repast with a little something added to make them feel good about their adventure. The volunteers who attended them were accustomed to speaking in soothing voices, and they would transfer each kitten to his limousine in the proper order. A few salty tears would be shed over kittens like Prince Hal, Lorna Doone, and Rum Tum Tugger, who were going out into the wide world.
From the waiting room on the lower level, each limousine would be brought to the stage, carried by MCCC spotters, trained for the assignment. The bleak stage was made friendly by a few potted plants lent by florists, and the auctioneer's table in centre front was softened with a paisley shawl lent by Maggie Sprenkle herself. Qwilleran was wearing his silk shirt in a neutral color that would show the kittens' markings to advantage. Purposely, his moustache had not been trimmed.
As the excited audience began to gather, spotters pointed to signs saying: QUIET ! KITTENS ASLEEP !
Four-page catalogs were handed out, listing twenty males and twenty females by their glamorous names, their nicknames, along with markings and eye color.
When the seats were filled on the main floor and balcony, the main doors were closed, and the welcome was made by Maggie Sprenkle, an important figure in the local aristocracy as well as animal welfare.
She said, "We know you're going to adore these kitties and want to scream in delight, but - please keep your voices to a low murmur. And when our auctioneer makes his bow don't welcome him with thunderous applause, but . . . remember the kitties!"
When Qwilleran made his entrance, the enthusiasm threatened to explode. Here was Mr. Q in person! But he held up both hands for silence, and proceeded to thrill them with the depth and warmth of his mellifluous voice.
"Friends, let's review the rules of the game. All of you who have bought bidding tickets have also received numbered flash cards. There will be no shouting of bids. Flash cards will be used to make bids in silence. . . . Let me see your flash cards!" A flutter of numbers filled the main hall.
The eight spotters were women students in MCCC T-shirts, and their delight in this assignment was reflected in their happy faces. Those in the aisles would watch for the flashing of cards when the auctioneer said, "Who'll give me three hundred?" The spotters would point and say, "Hep!" When the top bid was reached, the spotter would return the lucky kitten to his limousine and escort the winning bidder and his purchase to the cashier in the lobby. The spotters also warned noisy members of the audience, and the auctioneer would halt the bidding until the disturbance ended.
When the first limousine was brought to the paisley-draped table, Qwilleran read the name tag and said, "We are starting with a member of royalty: Princess Isabella! [General murmur.] She is a white calico with soft gray markings and a distinctive personality. She knows she'll grow up to be a queen, and she's going to have fun while she can." [Wriggle of anticipation in the audience.] Qwilleran opened the lid of the basket slowly and peeked inside, then lifted the kitten gently. [Excited murmur.] Isabella raised her head and looked at the audience with golden eyes.
"Aw-w-w!" came a murmur from the hall.
Qwilleran said, "We're told she has a playful disposition in spite of her royal antecedents." He shifted his grip on her, and she looked at his hand then opened her pink mouth and rested her sharp little teeth on his finger.
"Aw-w-w!" was the sentimental murmur, louder this time, and the spotters in the aisles held up warning hands.
The auctioneer said, "Shall we start with . . . five hundred?" A flutter of flash cards led him to raise the bid to seven . . . then eight-fifty . . . finally a thousand.
"A thousand, I've got! A thousand once . . . a thousand twice . . . Sold to number ninety-three!"
A spotter led two young women from their seats, and another took Isabella in her limousine to meet them. As they went up the aisle to the cashier, Qwilleran realized that one of them was Clarissa Moore. Her tanned, well-groomed companion, who had just bought Isabella, must be her friend Vicki.
There were no more thousand-dollar bids that morning but it telegraphed the message that a thousand is not too much to pay for a kitten. Bids didn't go that high again until late afternoon but anything less than five hundred seemed an affront to a Puck, or an Iago or a Cleopatra.
No other kitten bit the auctioneer's finger, but several reached up and touched his moustache with a trembling paw, at which the audience murmured, "Aw-w-w!"
After twenty kittens had been adopted, there was an intermission, when bidders could eat a picnic lunch on the lower level or buy one from Lois's Lunchwagon in the parking lot. Backstage everyone was complimenting everyone else, and when the afternoon session opened, Qwilleran complimented the holders of flash cards for their cooperation.
He conducted swift transactions. If the bidding dragged, he removed the subject from the block, rather than insult a personage of such importance as: Nanki-Poo, Mary Poppins, or Jane Austen.
Toward the end of the afternoon there was one more high-dollar bid. The kitten was a reddish brown male with a cocky manner and a swaggering walk. "A man's cat," the volunteers had written on his name tag.
When his turn came at the auction table, Qwilleran looked at the name tag and said to the audience, " ?If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs . . .' This is Rudyard Kipling, who also answers to the name of Rudy!"