Muriel was a Persian cat belonging to Lady Ann Warblington.  Lady Ann had breakfasted in bed and lain there late, as she rather fancied she had one of her sick headaches coming on.  Muriel had left her room in the wake of the breakfast tray, being anxious to be present at the obsequies of a fried sole that had formed Lady Ann’s simple morning meal, and had followed the maid who bore it until she had reached the hall.

At this point the maid, who disliked Muriel, stopped and made a noise like an exploding pop bottle, at the same time taking a little run in Muriel’s direction and kicking at her with a menacing foot.  Muriel, wounded and startled, had turned in her tracks and sprinted back up the staircase at the exact moment when the Honorable Freddie, who for some reason was in a great hurry, ran lightly down.

There was an instant when Freddie could have saved himself by planting a number-ten shoe on Muriel’s spine, but even in that crisis he bethought him that he hardly stood solid enough with the authorities to risk adding to his misdeeds the slaughter of his aunt’s favorite cat, and he executed a rapid swerve.  The spared cat proceeded on her journey upstairs, while Freddie, touching the staircase at intervals, went on down.

Having reached the bottom, he sat amid the occasional china, like Marius among the ruins of Carthage, and endeavored to ascertain the extent of his injuries.  He had a dazed suspicion that he was irretrievably fractured in a dozen places.  It was in this attitude that the rescue party found him.  He gazed up at them with silent pathos.

“In the name of goodness, Frederick,” said Lord Emsworth peevishly, “what do you imagine you are doing?”

Freddie endeavored to rise, but sank back again with a stifled howl.

“It was that bally cat of Aunt Ann’s,” he said.  “It came legging it up the stairs.  I think I’ve broken my leg.”

“You have certainly broken everything else,” said his father unsympathetically.  “Between you and Baxter, I wonder there’s a stick of furniture standing in the house.”

“Thanks, old chap,” said Freddie gratefully as Ashe stepped forward and lent him an arm.  “I think my bally ankle must have got twisted.  I wish you would give me a hand up to my room.”

“And, Baxter, my dear fellow,” said Lord Emsworth, “you might telephone to Doctor Bird, in Market Blandings, and ask him to be good enough to drive out.  I am sorry, Freddie,” he added, “that you should have met with this accident; but—­but everything is so—­so disturbing nowadays that I feel—­I feel most disturbed.”

Ashe and the Honorable Freddie began to move across the hall—­Freddie hopping, Ashe advancing with a sort of polka step.  As they reached the stairs there was a sound of wheels outside and the vanguard of the house party, returned from church, entered the house.