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At this particular stage of the twins’ career, Mr. Kipling was the God of their idolatry, and both of them had “gloated,” even in the manner of the immortal “Stalky” himself, over the vengeance of Ram Das.

“It might be managed,” Peter answered, thoughtfully scratching his smooth chin; “but then again, it may be close-time for kittens just at present; don’t they generally bloom in the spring?”

“There’s always plenty of kittens, you juggins,” ejaculated a prosaic friend. “Why, when I was down at the riding school this morning, there was a cat with six in an empty loose-box; they’ll have to drown five of ’em, they told me. D’your people want one or what?”

“I want one,” Peter rejoined excitedly; “not one, but five, to give to a dear friend.”

“Shouldn’t think he’d be your dear friend long.”

“Oh, yes, he will. He’s an S.P.C.K., or whatever it is. He’s awfully profane—humane, I mean.”

“Well,” said the other boy, still unconvinced; “you can ask about ’em when you go for your lesson to-morrow morning. They weren’t half bad little beasts, but I shouldn’t advise you to give your friend more than one at a time, anyhow.”