Sketches in Lavender, Blue and Green [75]
Henry! the country was his ruin. What brought about the change I cannot say: maybe the air was too bracing. He slid down the moral incline with frightful rapidity. The first night he stopped out till eleven, the second night he never came home at all, the third night he came home at six o'clock in the morning, minus half the fur on the top of his head. Of course, there was a lady in the case, indeed, judging by the riot that went on all night, I am inclined to think there must have been a dozen. He was certainly a fine cat, and they took to calling for him in the day time. Then gentleman cats who had been wronged took to calling also, and demanding explanations, which Thomas Henry, to do him justice, was always ready to accord.
The village boys used to loiter round all day to watch the fights, and angry housewives would be constantly charging into our kitchen to fling dead cats upon the table, and appeal to Heaven and myself for justice. Our kitchen became a veritable cat's morgue, and I had to purchase a new kitchen table. The cook said it would make her work simpler if she could keep a table entirely to herself. She said it quite confused her, having so many dead cats lying round among her joints and vegetables: she was afraid of making a mistake. Accordingly, the old table was placed under the window, and devoted to the cats; and, after that, she would never allow anyone to bring a cat, however dead, to her table.
"What do you want me to do with it," I heard her asking an excited lady on one occasion; "cook it?"
"It's my cat," said the lady; "that's what that is."
"Well, I'm not making cat pie to-day," answered our cook. "You take it to its proper table. This is my table."
At first, "Justice" was generally satisfied with half a crown, but as time went on cats rose. I had hitherto regarded cats as a cheap commodity, and I became surprised at the value attached to them. I began to think seriously of breeding cats as an industry. At the prices current in that village, I could have made an income of thousands.
"Look what your beast has done," said one irate female, to whom I had been called out in the middle of dinner.
I looked. Thomas Henry appeared to have "done" a mangy, emaciated animal, that must have been far happier dead than alive. Had the poor creature been mine I should have thanked him; but some people never know when they are well off.
"I wouldn't ha' taken a five-pun' note for that cat," said the lady.
"It's a matter of opinion," I replied, "but personally I think you would have been unwise to refuse it. Taking the animal as it stands, I don't feel inclined to give you more than a shilling for it. If you think you can do better by taking it elsewhere, you do so."
"He was more like a Christian than a cat," said the lady.
"I'm not taking dead Christians," I answered firmly, "and even if I were I wouldn't give more than a shilling for a specimen like that. You can consider him as a Christian, or you can consider him as a cat; but he's not worth more than a shilling in either case."
We settled eventually for eighteenpence.
The number of cats that Thomas Henry contrived to dispose of also surprised me. Quite a massacre of cats seemed to be in progress.
One evening, going into the kitchen, for I made it a practice now to visit the kitchen each evening, to inspect the daily consignment of dead cats, I found, among others, a curiously marked tortoiseshell cat, lying on the table.
"That cat's worth half a sovereign," said the owner, who was standing by, drinking beer.
I took up the animal, and examined it.
"Your cat killed him yesterday," continued the man. "It's a burning shame."
"My cat has killed him three times," I replied. "He was killed on Saturday as Mrs. Hedger's cat; on Monday he was killed for Mrs. Myers. I was not quite positive on Monday; but I had my suspicions, and I made notes. Now I recognise him. You take my advice, and bury him before he breeds a fever. I don't care how many lives a cat has got; I only pay for one."
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The village boys used to loiter round all day to watch the fights, and angry housewives would be constantly charging into our kitchen to fling dead cats upon the table, and appeal to Heaven and myself for justice. Our kitchen became a veritable cat's morgue, and I had to purchase a new kitchen table. The cook said it would make her work simpler if she could keep a table entirely to herself. She said it quite confused her, having so many dead cats lying round among her joints and vegetables: she was afraid of making a mistake. Accordingly, the old table was placed under the window, and devoted to the cats; and, after that, she would never allow anyone to bring a cat, however dead, to her table.
"What do you want me to do with it," I heard her asking an excited lady on one occasion; "cook it?"
"It's my cat," said the lady; "that's what that is."
"Well, I'm not making cat pie to-day," answered our cook. "You take it to its proper table. This is my table."
At first, "Justice" was generally satisfied with half a crown, but as time went on cats rose. I had hitherto regarded cats as a cheap commodity, and I became surprised at the value attached to them. I began to think seriously of breeding cats as an industry. At the prices current in that village, I could have made an income of thousands.
"Look what your beast has done," said one irate female, to whom I had been called out in the middle of dinner.
I looked. Thomas Henry appeared to have "done" a mangy, emaciated animal, that must have been far happier dead than alive. Had the poor creature been mine I should have thanked him; but some people never know when they are well off.
"I wouldn't ha' taken a five-pun' note for that cat," said the lady.
"It's a matter of opinion," I replied, "but personally I think you would have been unwise to refuse it. Taking the animal as it stands, I don't feel inclined to give you more than a shilling for it. If you think you can do better by taking it elsewhere, you do so."
"He was more like a Christian than a cat," said the lady.
"I'm not taking dead Christians," I answered firmly, "and even if I were I wouldn't give more than a shilling for a specimen like that. You can consider him as a Christian, or you can consider him as a cat; but he's not worth more than a shilling in either case."
We settled eventually for eighteenpence.
The number of cats that Thomas Henry contrived to dispose of also surprised me. Quite a massacre of cats seemed to be in progress.
One evening, going into the kitchen, for I made it a practice now to visit the kitchen each evening, to inspect the daily consignment of dead cats, I found, among others, a curiously marked tortoiseshell cat, lying on the table.
"That cat's worth half a sovereign," said the owner, who was standing by, drinking beer.
I took up the animal, and examined it.
"Your cat killed him yesterday," continued the man. "It's a burning shame."
"My cat has killed him three times," I replied. "He was killed on Saturday as Mrs. Hedger's cat; on Monday he was killed for Mrs. Myers. I was not quite positive on Monday; but I had my suspicions, and I made notes. Now I recognise him. You take my advice, and bury him before he breeds a fever. I don't care how many lives a cat has got; I only pay for one."
We