THE CAT'S HOLIDAY
the chairs, unheeded by singer or audience, Owen accosted the man in an undertone:
"That's my cat, you know. I was chasing him when you caught him, below there."
The other looked up. The lines of his broad, sunburned face were sullen, the cold grey eyes stared insolence.
"Ho, is 'e? Wot a bloomin' shame!" he growled. "'Cause 'e 'appens to be mine."
"That won't go," cried Owen testily. "You never saw him before. Give him here. I'm willing to pay you for catching him, of course."
"Are you now?" scoffed the stranger. "That's 'andsome of you, too. Pay me for catchin' of my own cat—my old shipmate that as gone with me all these voyages!"
The song had stopped abruptly. The giant on the billiard-table, sober and aggrieved, was reasoning down at them in plaintive tones:
"Thats all I say! I don't wish to force my-
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