He came home one evening somewhat dejected, brightening up as he stood
in the passage and inhaled the ravishing odours from the kitchen. Mrs.
Billing, with a trace of nervousness somewhat unaccountable in view of
the excellent quality of the repast provided, poured him out a glass of
beer, and passed flattering comment upon his appearance.

"Wot's the game?" he inquired.

"Game?" repeated his wife, in a trembling voice. "Nothing. 'Ow do you
find that steak-pudding? I thought of giving you one every Wednesday."

Mr. Billing put down his knife and fork and sat regarding her
thoughtfully. Then he pushed back his chair suddenly, and, a picture of
consternation and wrath, held up his hand for silence.

"W-w-wot is it?" he demanded. "A cat?"

Mrs. Billing made no reply, and her husband sprang to his feet as a long,
thin wailing sounded through the house. A note of temper crept into it
and strengthened it.

"Wot is it?" demanded Mr. Billing again. "It's--it's Mrs. Smith's
Charlie," stammered his wife.

"In--in my bedroom?" exclaimed her husband, in incredulous accents.
"Wot's it doing there?"

"I took it for the night," said his wife hurriedly. "Poor thing, what
with the others being ill she's 'ad a dreadful time, and she said if I'd
take Charlie for a few--for a night, she might be able to get some