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Updated: May 20, 2025
Gustily intoning to Vere de Vere, who was the perfect audience, inasmuch as she never had anything to say but "Mrwr," and didn't mind being interrupted in that, he clamored, "The prairies are the sea.
Then, while freedom and the distant Pacific seemed to rush at him over the hood, he whirled out of town. It was two minutes to one forty-seven minutes since Claire Boltwood had entered Schoenstrom. He stopped only once. His friend Lady Vere de Vere was at the edge of town, on a scientific exploring trip in the matter of ethnology and field mice. She hailed him, "Mrwr? Me mrwr!"
Before Milt slept that night, in his camp three miles from Gopher Prairie, he went through religious rites. "Girl like her, she's darn particular about her looks. I'm a sloppy hound. Used to be snappier about my clothes when I was in high school. Getting lazy too much like Mac. Think of me sleeping in my clothes last night!" "Mrwr!" rebuked the cat. "You're dead right. Fierce is the word.
As it approached, the driver must have sighted her and increased speed. He came up at thirty-five miles an hour. "Now we'll get something done! Look! It's a bug a flivver or a Teal or something. I believe it's the young man that got us out of the mud." Milt Daggett stopped, casually greeted them: "Why, hello, Miss Boltwood. Thought you'd be way ahead of me some place!" "Mrwr," said Vere de Vere.
The cat did not move, as they came up; did not give the gallant "Mrwr" with which she had saluted Milt on lonely morning after morning of forlorn driving behind the Gomez. He picked Vere up. "She's she's dead," he said. He was crying. "Oh, Milt Last night you said Vere was all the family you had. You have the Boltwoods, now!"
On Milt's shoulder rode Vere de Vere who, in her original way, relieved one pause by observing "Mrwr."
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