light it with
that----"

There was a pause while one might count three. It was plain that the
speaker was struggling with himself.

"--that cat," he concluded safely, "up the chimney? It's a cold dinner
we'll get to-night, if that cat doesn't come down."

The professor's face fell. I had remarked on the occasion when I had
lunched with him his evident fondness for the pleasures of the table.
Cold impromptu dinners were plainly not to his taste.

We went to the kitchen in a body. Mrs. Beale was standing in front of
the empty grate, making seductive cat-noises up the chimney.

"What's all this, Mrs. Beale?" said Ukridge.

"He won't come down, sir, not while he thinks Bob's about. And how I'm
to cook dinner for five with him up the chimney I don't see, sir."

"Prod at him with a broom handle, Mrs. Beale," said Ukridge.

"Oh, don't hurt poor Edwin," said Mrs. Ukridge.

"I 'ave tried that, sir, but I can't reach him, and I'm only bin and
drove 'im further up. What must be," added Mrs. Beale philosophically,
"must be. He may come down of his own accord in the night. Bein'
'ungry."

"Then what we must do," said Ukridge in a jovial manner, which to me at
least seemed out of place, "is to have a regular, jolly picnic-dinner,
what? Whack up whatever we have in the larder, and eat that."

"A regular, jolly picnic-dinner," repeated the professor gloomily. I
could read what was passing in his mind,--remorse for having come at
all, and a faint hope that it might not be too late to back out of it.

"That will be splendid," said Phyllis.

"Er, I think, my dear sir," said her father, "it would be hardly fair
for us to give any further trouble to Mrs. Ukridge and yourself. If you
will allow me, therefore, I will----"

Ukridge became gushingly hospitable. He refused to think of allowing
his guests to go empty away. He would be able to whack up something, he
said. There was quite a good deal of the ham left. He was sure. He
appealed to me to endorse his view that there was a tin of sardines and
part of a cold fowl and plenty of bread and cheese.

"And after all," he said, speaking for the whole company in the
generous, comprehensive way enthusiasts have, "what more do we want in
weather like this? A nice, light, cold, dinner is ever so much better
for us than a lot of hot things."

We strolled out again into the garden, but somehow things seemed to
drag. Conversation was fitful, except on the part of Ukridge, who
conti