The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

“Then you come, and I’ll invite someone from the neighborhood.”

When he arrived an hour later, he was glad to see Hixie Rice, promotion director for theSomething.

“Where’s Polly?” she asked.

“In Lockmaster—probably up to no good. Where’s Dwight?”

“In the same place, probably for the same reason.”

Drinks were served on the deck. They talked about the Old Hulk. The Scottish community was prepared to underwrite a new building. Volunteer carpenters, electricians, and painters were offering their services, proud to have their names on an honor roll in the lobby of the building.

The meal was served indoors, as usual.

Mildred said, “I envy Qwill’s screened gazebo. He can serve outdoors, and the cats can be out there without leashes.”

After dessert (peach cobbler with crème fraîche and pecans) the two men entertained with their favorite topic: growing up in Chicago. Hixie had not heard the story before.

Mildred said, “Tell about summer camp.”

The oft-told tale went like this:

QWILL: “My father died before I was born, and so Mr. Riker functioned as dad for both of us—taking us to the zoo and parades, giving advice, discussing our report cards, getting us out of scrapes.”

ARCH: “One year he decided we should go to summer camp and learn something useful like doing the Australian crawl, rigging a sailboat, climbing a tree, whittling a wood whistle…”

QWILL: “But there’s only one thing we remember. Every night we’d sit around a campfire, listen to stories, and sing camp songs loudly, but not well.”

ARCH: “But the only thing that either of us remembers in detail is the campfire chant.”

QWILL: “Not only do we remember every word, but it runs through the mind at the most inopportune times.”

ARCH: “—Like, when facing a traffic judge.”

QWILL: “—or getting married.”

ARCH: “—Would you like a performance?”

Hixie squealed, “Please do!”

The two men sat up in their chairs, eyed each other for a cue, then launched into a loud, bouncy beat:

“Away down yonder not so very far off

A jaybird died of the whooping cough.

Hewhoopedso hard with the whooping cough

That hewhoopedhis head and his tail

Right off!”

There was a moment’s silence, during which Polly always said, “To quote Richard the Third, I am amazed.”

Hixie squealed, “I love it! I wanta learn it!”

“Want to hear the second verse?” they asked. “It’s the same as the first.”

The party broke up at a sensible hour, and Qwilleran drove home to get up-to-date on Polly’s escapade. He would ask her:

How was the party?

Were there sixty candles on the cake?

Who was there?

Were they dressed bookish or horsey?

Did they really play guessing games?

Who won?

What were the prizes?

What church do they attend?

How was the preacher?

He was a thorough interviewer, and she liked to be interviewed.

When he arrived at the barn, the cat-in-the-window message assured Qwilleran that someone had checked in. It was the weatherman.

“Polly’s home, but she’s beat! Call me, not her. She looked frazzled, Qwill, high on excitement, short on sleep. I told her to turn in and I’d notify you.”

Qwilleran said, “She never drinks more than half a glass of sherry. She’s known Shirley for years!”

“Yeah, but…something got her overexcited and maybe it interfered with her sleep. Too bad she had to drive home alone. We’ll keep in touch. Don’t worry.”

That evening, around eleven o’clock, Qwilleran was reading in his lounge chair, and the cats were sprawled on his lap. Suddenly Koko was alerted! He looked at the desk phone. And it rang. It was Polly, reporting for their bedtime chat.

“Qwill!” she cried. “I suppose you wonder what happened to me. I’ve never been so exhausted in my life! A cup of cocoa, a few hours’ sleep with my cuddly cats, and I revivified…. I hope you didn’t worry about me.”

“We’ll go to dinner tomorrow night, and you can fill me in.”

“I’ll have something exciting to tell you,” Polly said.

“Give me a hint.”

“No hints. If you guess what it is, it won’t be a surprise….À bientôt! ”

“À bientôt.”

EIGHT

On his way to the radio station, Wetherby Goode often stopped at Qwilleran’s barn for a pick-me-up, and the newsman enjoyed his impromptu visits—not only to get the inside track on the weather but to share neighborly news, and the neighbors at the Willows were always making news. Joe had been genuinely concerned about Polly.

When he arrived at the kitchen door and dropped on a stool at the bar, he was greeted by Koko and Yum Yum, who would not be surprised to receive a friendly cat snack from Jet Stream.

Qwilleran poured and said, “Well, she survived!”

“She’s a tough one! Never underestimate the power of a cup of cocoa!”

The male cat jumped to the bar top, hearing his name.

Qwilleran said, “I expect to hear the whole story when we have dinner tonight. The problem is: Monday is not a good night for dining out. The Mackintosh Inn is too formal, the Grist Mill too festive, the Boulder House too far.”

“Why not get a picnic supper catered by Robin O’Dell, Qwill, and serve it in the gazebo? You don’t know how lucky you are to have premises that are screened.”