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room.
     
    Oscar had been established as one of the family for several weeks when I came in from a late call to find Helen waiting for me with a stricken face. “What’s happened?” I asked. “It’s Oscar—he’s gone!”
    “Gone? What do you mean?” “Oh, Jim, I think he’s run away.” I stared at her. “He wouldn’t do that. He often goes down to the garden at night. Are you sure he isn’t there?” “Absolutely. I’ve searched right into the yard. I’ve even had a walk around the town. And remember,” her chin quivered, “he … he ran away from somewhere before.” I looked at my watch. “Ten o”clock. Yes, that is strange.
    He shouldn’t be out at this time.” As I spoke the front door bell jangled. I galloped down the stairs and as I rounded the corner in the passage I could see Mrs. Heslington, the vicar’s wife, through the glass. I threw open the door. She was holding Oscar in her arms.
    “I believe this is your cat, Mr. Herriot,” she said. “It is indeed, Mrs. Heslington. Where did you find him?” She smiled. “Well, it was rather odd. We were having a meeting of the Mothers” Union at the church house and we noticed the cat sitting there in the room.”
    “Just sitting …?” “Yes, as though he were listening to what we were saying and enjoying it all. It was unusual. When the meeting ended I thought I’d better bring him along to you.” “I’m most grateful, Mrs. Heslington.” I snatched Oscar and tucked him under my arm. “My wife is distraught—she thought he was lost.” It was a little mystery. Why should he suddenly take off like that? But since he showed no change in his manner over the ensuing week we put it out of our minds. Then one evening a man brought in a dog for an inoculation and left the front door open. When I went up to our flat I found that Oscar had disappeared again. This time Helen and I scoured the market place and side alleys in vain and when we returned at half past nine we were both despondent. It was nearly eleven and we were thinking of bed when the door bell rang. It was Oscar again, this time resting on the ample stomach of Jack Newbould.
    Jack was leaning against the doorpost and the fresh country air drifting in from the dark street was richly intermingled with beer fumes. Jack was a gardener at one of the big houses. He hiccuped gently and gave me a huge benevolent smile. “Brought your cat, Mr.
    Herriot.” “Gosh, thanks, Jack!” I said, scooping up Oscar gratefully.
    “Where the devil did you find him?” “Well, s’matter o” fact, “e sort of found me.” “What do you mean?” Jack closed his eyes for a few moments before articulating carefully. “Thish is a big night, tha knows, Mr. Herriot. Darts championship. Lots of t”lads round at t”Dog and Gun—lotsh and lotsh of “em. Big gathering.” “And our cat was there?” “Aye, he were there, all right. Sitting among t”lads.
    Shpent t”whole evening with us.” “Just sat there, eh?” “That “e did.
    ” Jack giggled reminiscently. “By gaw, “e enjoyed isself. Ah gave “im a drop o” best bitter out of me own glass and once or twice ah thought “e was going to have a go at chucking a dart. He’s some cat.
    ” He laughed again. As I bore Oscar upstairs I was deep in thought.
    What was going on here? These sudden desertions were upsetting Helen and I felt they could get on my nerves in time. I didn’t have long to wait till the next one. Three nights later he was missing again.
    This time Helen and I didn’t bother to search—we just waited. He was back earlier than usual. I heard the door bell at nine o”clock.
    It was the elderly Miss Simpson peering through the glass. And she wasn’t holding Oscar—he was prowling on the mat waiting to come in.
    Miss Simpson watched with interest as the cat stalked inside and made for the stairs. “Ah, good, I’m so glad he’s come home safely. I knew he was your cat and I’ve been intrigued by his behaviour