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done up in a knot. Dark hair and a little piece of it was loose. Jarvis sat by her on the sofa. He had on his brown uniform and he was sunburned and very clean. They were the two prettiest people I ever saw. Yet it was like I couldn't see all of them I wanted to see. My brains couldn't gather together quick enough and take it all in. And then they were gone. You see what I mean?"
    "You hurting yourself," said Berenice. "What you need is a needle."
    "I don't care anything about my old feet," Frankie said.
    It was only half-past six, and the minutes of the afternoon were like bright mirrors. From outside there was no longer the sound of whistling and in the kitchen nothing moved. Frankie sat facing the door that opened onto the back porch. There was a square cat-hole cut in a corner of the back door, and near-by a saucer of lavender sour milk. In the beginning of dog days Frankie's cat had gone away. And the season of dog days is like this: it is the time at the end of the summer when as a rule nothing can happen—but if a change does come about, that change remains until dog days are over. Things that are done are not undone and a mistake once made is not corrected.
    That August Berenice scratched a mosquito bite under her right arm and it became a sore: that sore would never heal until dog days were over. Two little families of August gnats picked out the corner of John Henry's eyes to settle down in, and though he
often shook himself and blinked, those gnats were there to stay. Then Charles disappeared. Frankie did not see him leave the house and walk away, but on the fourteenth of August, when she called him to his supper, he did not come, and he was gone. She looked for him everywhere and sent John Henry wailing out his name through all the streets of town. But it was the season of dog days and Charles did not come back again. Every afternoon Frankie said exactly the same words to Berenice, and the answers of Berenice were always the same. So that now the words were like an ugly little tune they sang by heart.
    "If only I just knew where he has gone."
    "Quit worrying yourself about that old alley cat. I done told you he ain't coming back."
    "Charles is not alley. He is almost pure Persian."
    "Persian as I is," Berenice would say. "You seen the last of that old tomcat. He gone off to hunt a friend."
    "To hunt a friend?"
    "Why, certainy. He roamed off to find himself a lady-friend."
    "You really think so?"
    "Naturally."
    "Well, why don't he bring his friend home with him. He ought to know I would be only too glad to have a whole family of cats."
    "You seen the last of that old alley cat."
    "If only I just knew where he is gone."
    And so each gloomy afternoon their voices sawed against each other, saying the same words, which finally reminded Frankie of a raggedy rhyme said by two crazies. She would end by telling Berenice: "It looks to me like everything has just walked off and left me." And she would put her head down on the table and feel afraid.
    But this afternoon Frankie suddenly changed all this. An idea came to her, and she put down the knife and got up from the table.
    "I know what I ought to do," she suddenly said. "Listen."
    "I can hear."
    "I ought to notify the police force. They will find Charles"
    "I wouldn't do that," said Berenice.
    Frankie went to the hall telephone and explained to the Law about her cat. "He is almost pure Persian," she said. "But with short hair. A very lovely color of gray and with a little white spot on his throat. He answers to the name of
Charles,
but if he don't answer to that, he might come if you call
Charlina.
My name is Miss F. Jasmine Addams and the address is 124 Grove Street"
    Berenice was giggling when she came back, a soft high giggle. "Whew! They going to send around here and tie you up and drag you off to Milledgeville. Them fat blue police chasing tomcats around alleys and hollering:
Oh Charles, Oh come here, Charlina!
Sweet Jesus!"
    "Aw, shut up," Frankie said.
    Berenice