tried to stand up on his feet, but his shoulders were oddly heavy. He could only rear himself upright for a moment, and then fell heavily on his hands. He looked down at them; they seemed to have grown shorter and fatter, and were encased in black fur gloves. He felt a desire to walk on all fours—tried it—did it. It was very odd—the movement of the arms [p9]  straight from the shoulder, more like the movement of the piston of an engine than anything Maurice could think of at that moment.

‘——,’

[p

9

]  

‘I am asleep,’ said Maurice—‘I am dreaming this. I am dreaming I am a cat. I hope I dreamed that about the sardine-tin and Lord Hugh’s tail, and Dr. Strong’s.’

‘You didn’t,’ said a voice he knew and yet didn’t know, ‘and you aren’t dreaming this.’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Maurice; ‘and now I’m going to dream that I fight that beastly black cat, and give him the best licking he ever had in his life. Come on, Lord Hugh.’

A loud laugh answered him.

‘Excuse my smiling,’ said the voice he knew and didn’t know, ‘but don’t you see—you are Lord Hugh!’

A great hand picked Maurice up from the floor and held him in the air. He felt the position to be not only undignified but unsafe, and gave himself a shake of mingled relief and resentment when the hand set him down on the inky table-cloth.

‘You are Lord Hugh now, my dear Maurice,’ said the voice, and a huge face came quite close to his. It was his own face, as it would have seemed through a magnifying glass. And the voice—oh, horror!—the voice was his own voice—Maurice Basingstoke’s voice. Maurice [p10]  shrank from the voice, and he would have liked to claw the face, but he had had no practice.

[p

10

]  

‘You are Lord Hugh,’ the voice repeated, ‘and I am Maurice. I like being Maurice. I am so large and strong. I could drown you in the water-butt, my poor cat—oh, so easily. No, don’t spit and swear. It’s bad manners—even in a cat.’

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