They may be miles off."
Dido was inclined to agree.
A bowl of oyster stew arrived, with some thin cassava biscuits. While she was hungrily eating this, Mr. Holystone told her of the captain's meeting with Mr. Pryce, the mayor, or
jefe,
of the town.
"What the mayor told him was one reason for his being so distressed over your absence. It seems that the rocs, or aurocs, the great birds that live in the mountains, fly down over the town at early dusk, and carry off many children, especially girls. There is great danger for young persons who go out alone."
"That's why old Brandyblossom is leaving town, then," observed Dido, carefully wiping her stew bowl with a piece of cassava. "So the little angel won't be swiped by an auroc. But how does those two old hags come into the business, I wonder? If I'd been found missing, Cap'n Hughes would've thought an auroc got me. But
them
two ain't aurocs—unless they're in the catering way, a-selling tasty tidbits to the aurocs."
A sizzling shark steak was brought in, garnished with peppers and slices of lime.
About to commence eating, Dido paused at the sound of a heartrending, famished mew, which seemed to come from under the oak settle on which she was sitting. She looked down. A thin, golden cat had emerged from under the seat and was stretched up beseechingly, with both slender paws on her knee.
"Why—it's
Dora!
How in tarnation did
she
get here? Reckon she followed you, Mr. Holy?"
Dido put down a good-sized morsel of shark; the ravenous cat caught it with both paws before it reached the ground, and set upon it avidly.
"No, that is not Dora," said Mr. Holystone, carefully inspecting the animal. He rubbed with a gentle thumb between the copper ears and tufted eyebrows. "My cat has a little silky curl, just here, in the middle of her forehead—and this one has none."
"This one's thinner than Dora, too," agreed Dido, feeling the bony ribs and dropping another piece of shark. "But ain't that rum—to find one so simular! Are we close to your land, then, Mr. Holy? Or is cats like that common all over Roman America?"
"We are not
so
far from Hy Brasil," he said, sighing. "But cats such as this are not so frequently met with—they generally belong to rich people—the nobility. How now, what have we here?"
Around the cat's neck his stroking fingers had discovered a thin, plaited collar, with a leather disc and a tiny packet attached to it. The disc said
Titten Tatten.
Mr. Holystone, feeling the collar, uttered a soft exclamation.
"This collar is made from human hair," he said.
"Holy snails! Someone ain't half got long hair. Must take a
deal
o' combing out," Dido said, running her fingers through her own short locks. "Does the packet give the owner's name?"
She set down her plate, with the rest of the shark steak. The cat was too interested in this bounty to object to the removal of its collar, and Mr. Holystone unfolded the little packet with careful fingers, while Dido went on to a final course of pineapple and pawpaw.
"My, ain't that tasty! What's the paper say, Mr. Holy?"
He was frowning over the little square. It was a tiny printed page:
Bee. The a nimal that makes honey, r ema r k ab l e for its industry and art.
B eldam . An old woman, generall y a t e rm of contempt, marking the last degree of old age with all its faults and miseries.
Cat. A domestick animal that catches mice, commonly reckoned by naturalists the lowest order of th e le o n ine species.
"That's rummy," said Dido, looking over his shoulder. "What'd a person stick that in a collar for? Bee? Beldam? Cat? What d'you make of it, Mr. Holy? It looks like a page from a dictionary."
"It is a dictionary. If I mistake not, it is Dr. Samuel Johnson's
Dictionary of the English Language.
"
"Why would someone stick it in a cat's collar?"
Dido took the paper from him and stared closely at the printed lines.
"Looky here," she said after a while. "Somebody made marks here and there—see—like it might be with a
editor Elizabeth Benedict