WILLIAM AND THE BLACK CAT
Bunker, the old black cat, had been an inhabitant of William’s home
ever since he could remember. Bunker officially belonged to Ethel,
William’s sister, but he bestowed his presence impartially on every
family in the neighbourhood. He frequently haunted the next door
garden, where lived another black cat, a petted darling named Luke,
belonging to Miss Amelia Blake.
William treated all cats with supreme contempt. Towards his own
family’s cat he unbent occasionally so far as to throw twigs at it or
experiment upon it with pots of coloured paints, but he prided himself
upon despising cats, and considered that their only use in the world
was to give exercise and pleasure to his beloved mongrel, Jumble.
When William lay in bed and Miss Amelia Blake’s tender accents rose
nightly to his ears from the next garden, “Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky,
Luk-ee-ee-_ee!_” he would frown scornfully.
“Huh! All for an ole _cat!_ Fancy _knowin’_ ’em.”
His boast was that he did not know one cat from another.
Bunker was very old and very mangy. He employed habitually an
ear-splitting and horrible yell, long drawn out and increasing in
volume as it neared its nightmare climax--a yell which William loved to
imitate.
“Yah-ah-ah-ah-ah-Ah-AH!”
Mr. Brown remarked many times that that cat and that boy would drive
him to drink between them, but at least that boy slept at nights. It
was decided one morning, when Bunker had spent a whole night in the
garden without once relaxing the efforts of his vocal chords, that
Bunker should leave this unsympathetic world for some sphere where,
one hoped, his voice could be better appreciated, or, at any rate,
submitted to some tuning process.
“Well, he goes, or I go,” said Mr. Brown. “One or other of us must be
destroyed. The world can’t hold us both. You can take your choice.”
Thus Bunker’s fate was sealed.
Ethel, who had hardly looked at Bunker for months without disgust,
began, now that his dissolution was imminent, to dwell upon his
engaging kittenhood, to see him in her mind’s eye as a black ball with
a blue ribbon around his neck, and to experience all the feelings
that one ought to experience when one’s beloved pet is torn from one
by Death. She would even have fondled him if he hadn’t been so mangy.
When his hideous voice upraised itself she would murmur, “My darling
Bunker.” And only a week ago she had murmured, “Why we _keep_ that cat,
I can’t think.”
One afternoon when Ethel was at the tennis club, Mrs. Brown approached
William mysteriously.
“William, dear, I think it would be so kind of you to take Bunker
to Gorton’s now while Ethel is out. I’ve told Mr. Gorton and he’s
expecting him, and it would be much nicer for Ethel just to hear that
it was all over.”
Nothing loth to help in Bunker’s destruction, William took the covered
basket from the pantry and went into the garden, caught a glimpse of
black fur beyond the summer-house, crept up behind it, grabbed it with
a triumphant “Would you?” and clapped it into the basket.
* * * * *
Gorton’s was a wonderland to William--dogs in cages, cats in cages,
guinea-pigs in cages, rabbits in cages, white rats in cages, tortoises
in cages, gold-fish in bowls.
Once William had been thrilled to see a monkey there. William had stood
outside the shop for a whole morning watching it and making encouraging
conciliatory noises to it which it answered by an occasional jabber
that delighted William’s very soul. William was glad of an errand that
gave him an excuse for wandering round the fascinations of the shop.
He handed his basket to Mr. Gorton, and began his tour of inspection.
He spent half an hour in front of the cage of a parrot, who screamed
repeatedly, “Go--_away_, you ass, go _away!_”
William would never have tired of the joy of listening to this, but,
discovering that it was almost tea-time, he reluctantly took up his
empty basket and returned.
When he entered the dining-room, Mrs. Brown was speaking to Ethel.
“Ethel, darling, William very kindly took dear Bunker to Mr. Gorton’s
this afternoon. We wanted you to be spared the pain of knowing till it
was over, but now it’s over and Bunker didn’t suffer at all, you know,
darling, and----”
At that moment there arose from the garden the familiar hair-raising,
ear-splitting sound. “Yah-ah-ah-ah-AH.”
Ethel burst into tears.
“It’s Bunker’s ghost,” she said, “Oh, it’s his ghost.”
But it wasn’t Bunker’s ghost, for Bunker’s solid, earthly, mangy form
appeared at that very moment upon the window-sill.
William’s heart stood still. In the sudden silence that greeted
the apparition of the earthly body of Bunker, his mind grasped the
important fact that he must have taken the wrong cat, and that the less
he said about it the better.
“William,” said Mrs. Brown reproachfully, “you might have done a little
thing like that for your sister.”
“I thought----” said William feebly, “I mean, I meant----”
“Well, you must do it after tea,” said Mrs. Brown firmly; “it isn’t
kind of you to cause your sister all this unnecessary suffering just
because you’re too lazy to walk down to Gorton’s.”
His sister, who was finding it difficult to whip up a loving sorrow
for Bunker, while Bunker, mangy and alive, stared at her through the
window, said nothing and William muttered: “All right--after tea--I’ll
go after tea.”
He went after tea. He handed the basket to Mr. Gorton with an
unblushing: “There was two really to be done--here’s the other.”
He stood oppressed by the thought of his crime, and waited the return
of his basket. He had even lost interest in Mr. Gorton’s wonderland.
When the parrot screamed, “Go _away_, you ass, go _away_,” he replied
huffily, “Go away yourself.”
As he lay in bed that night, he wondered vaguely whose cat he had
consigned to an untimely death.
He soon knew.
“Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Luk-ee-ee-_ee_. Where are you, darling?
Luky?--Luky? Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Lukee-ee-ee-_ee?_ What’s happened
to you, Luky? Where are you, darling? Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky,
Luk-ee-ee-ee-_ee_.”
It seemed to William to go on all night.
* * * * *
William’s excursions in the character of robber chief, outlaw, or Red
Indian, took him many miles outside the radius of his own village.
Three days after the day of his ill-omened mistake he was passing a
wayside cottage (in the character of a famous detective on the track
of crime), when he noticed a large black cat sitting upon the doorstep
washing its face. There was something familiar about that cat. William
stopped. It wasn’t Bunker, but was it----
“Luky,” said William in a hoarse persuasive whisper.
The large black cat rose purring and came down the walk to William.
“Luky,” said William again.
The large black cat rubbed itself fondly against William’s boots.
A woman came out of the cottage smiling.
“You admirin’ my pussy, little boy?”
In ordinary circumstances, William would have resented most bitterly
this mode of address and would have passed on with a silent glance of
contempt. But from William’s heart the load of murder had been lifted.
He almost smiled.
“Umph!” he said.
“He _is_ a nice pussy, isn’t he?” went on Luky’s new owner. “I bought
him at Gorton’s, three days ago. He was just what I wanted--a nice
full-grown cat. Kittens are so destructive. He’s called Twinkie.
Twinkie, Twinkie, Twinkie,” she murmured fondly bending down to stroke
him, her voice rising affectionately in the scale at each repetition of
his name.
Luky rubbed himself purring against her boots.
“There!” she said proudly, “don’t the dear dumb creature know its new
mistress.... There then, darling. You come in an’ see the beauty lap up
its milk some time, little boy, and I’ll give you a gingerbread. I like
little boys to be fond of animals--especially cats. Some nasty boys
throw sticks and things at them, but I’m quite sure you wouldn’t, would
you?”
William muttered something inaudible and set off down the road, his
heart torn between relief at knowing himself guiltless of the crime
of murder and indignant shame at being accused of an affection for
cats--_cats!_ But he was horrified at the duplicity of Mr. Gorton, and
decided to confront him with it at once. He hastened to the cage-hung
shop and, spending only ten minutes in front of the box of grass
snakes, entered the cool, dark depths where Mr. Gorton, in his shirt
sleeves, was chewing tobacco.
Mr. Gorton was a large, burly man with a fat, good-natured-looking
face, and a gentle manner. But Mr. Gorton obeyed the Scriptures in
combining with his dove-like gentleness a serpent-like cunning.
“Now look ’ere, young gent,” he said, when William had laid his
accusation before him. “You say I sold that there hanimal. Now wot you
wanted was to be rid of that hanimal, didn’t you? Well, you’re rid
of it, haren’t you? So wot’ve you got to grumble at? See? ’As that
there hanimal come back to trouble you? _No._ I’m as good a judge of
a cat’s character, I am, as hanyone. I knowed that there cat soon’s
I seed ’im. I says, ‘There’s a hanimal as will curl up anywheres you
like ter put ’im an’ so long’s ’e’s got ’is cushion an’ ’is saucer o’
milk regular, ’e won’t ’anker after nuffin’ else. ’E won’t go no long
torchurous road journeys tryin’ to find old ’omes. Not ’e. ’E’ll rub
’isself against hanyone wot’ll say ‘Puss, puss.’ ’Sides which it’s
agin’ my feelings as a ’umane man to put to death a young an’ ’ealthy
hanimal.”
William stared at him.
“Now the second one you brought, well, ’e was ripe fer death, all
right, an’ it’s a pleasure an’ kindness to do it in those circs. ’Sides
which,” Mr. Gorton went on as another argument occurred to him, “wot
proof ’ave you that this ’ere hanimal of Miss Cliff’s is the same
hanimal wot you brought to me Saturday? They’re both black cats--no
marks on ’em. Well, there must be ’undreds of black cats same as
that--thahsands--_millions_--just _think_ of ’em--all hover the world.
Well, jus’ you prove that these two hanimals is identical.”
William, having for once in his life met his match in eloquence, moved
away despondently.
“All right,” he said, “I only asked.” He went to the parrot who was
still there, and who greeted him with an ironical laugh and a cry of:
“My _word_--what a nut! Oh, my _word!_”
William’s spirits rose.
“How much is the parrot?” he said.
“Five pounds,” said Mr. Gorton.
William’s spirits sank again.
“Snakes one and six--and--and, see here, I’ll _give_ you a baby
tortoise jus’ to stop you worrying about that hanimal.”
William walked home proudly carrying his baby tortoise in both hands.
Miss Amelia Blake was in the drawing-room. She was speaking tearfully
to his mother. “And I leave his saucer of milk out every night and I
call him every night, my poor Luky. I can hardly sleep with thinking of
my darling, perhaps hungry and needing me.... William, if you see any
traces of my Luky you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
And William, oppressed by the weight of his guilty secret, muttered
something inaudible and went to watch the effect of his new pet upon
Jumble.
That night the plaintive cry arose again to his room.
“Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Luk-ee-ee-_ee!_ Luky, Luky. Where _are_ you,
darling? Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Lukee-ee-ee-ee.”
* * * * *
William’s conscience, though absolved of the crime of murder, felt
heavy as Miss Amelia Blake called her lost pet mournfully night after
night.
Now William’s conscience was a curious organ. It needed a great deal
to rouse it. When roused it demanded immediate action. He took one
of his white rats round to Miss Amelia Blake, and Miss Amelia Blake
screamed and got on to the table. He even rose to supreme heights of
self-denial, and offered her his baby tortoise, but she refused it.
“No, William dear, it’s very kind of you, but what I need is something
I can stroke--and I don’t want anything but my Luky--and I--I don’t
like its expression--it looks as if it might bite. I _couldn’t_ stroke
that!”
Greatly relieved, William took it back.
That afternoon, perched on the garden fence, his elbows on his knees,
his chin in his hands, he watched the antics of Jumble round the baby
tortoise. Though William had had the tortoise for three days now,
Jumble still barked at it with unabated fury, and William watched
the two with unabated interest. But William’s thoughts were still
occupied with the Twinkie-Luky problem. The ethics of the case were
difficult. It belonged to Miss Blake, but Miss Cliff had paid for it.
Then suddenly the solution occurred to him--a week each. They should
have it a week each--that would be quite easy to manage. His heart
lightened. He jumped down, put his tortoise into his pocket, called
“Hi, Jumble!”, took a stick, jumped (almost) over the bed in the middle
of the lawn, and went whistling down the road followed by Jumble.
The covered basket was very old and very shabby, and it did not need
much persuasion on William’s part to induce Mrs. Brown to give it to
him.
“Jus’ to keep my things in an’ carry ’em about in, mother,” he said
plaintively, “so as I won’t be so untidy. I shan’t be half as untidy if
I have a basket like that to keep my things in an’ carry ’em about in.”
“All right, dear,” said Mrs. Brown, much pleased.
She was eternally optimistic about William.
William spent an entire Saturday morning stalking Luky in the
neighbourhood of Miss Cliff’s garden (Miss Cliff went into the town
to do her shopping on Saturday mornings). Finally he caught him, put
him in the basket, and secretly deposited Luky in Miss Amelia Blake’s
garden. Miss Blake was overjoyed.
“He’s come back, Mrs. Brown! Mrs. Brown, he’s come back. William, he’s
come back--Luky’s come back.”
Miss Cliff was distraught.
“Little boy, you haven’t seen my Twinkie anywhere, have you? My
darling Twinkie, he’s gone. Twinkie! Twinkie! Twinkie! Twinkie!
Twinkie-ee-_ee!_”
The next four Saturdays he successfully changed Twinkie-Luky’s place
of abode. On arrival at Miss Cliff’s, Twinkie made immediately for his
favourite cushion and went to sleep. On arrival at Miss Amelia Blake’s
Luky did the same. The owners became almost accustomed to the week’s
mysterious absence.
“He’s gone away again, Mrs. Brown,” Miss Blake would call over the
fence. “I only hope he’ll come back as he did last time. You haven’t
seen him, have you? Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Lukee-ee-ee-ee-_ee!_”
Then William became bored. At first the glorious consciousness of
duty done and the salving of his sense of guilt had upheld him, but
he began to feel that this could not go on for ever. When all is said
and done, Saturday is Saturday--a golden holiday in a drab procession
of schooldays. William began to think that if he had to spend every
Saturday of his life stalking Twinkie-Luky and conveying him secretly
from one end of the village to the other, he might just as well not
have been born----
* * * * *
He had put Twinkie-Luky in the basket and was setting off with it
down the road. It was very hot and Twinkie-Luky was very heavy and
William was very cross. He had just come to the conclusion that some
other solution must be found to the Twinkie-Luky problem when he heard
the sound of the ’bus that made its slow and noisy progress from the
neighbouring country town to the village in which William lived.
A ride in the ’bus would save him a long, hot walk with the heavy
basket, and by some miraculous chance he had the requisite penny in his
pocket. And anyhow, he was sick of the whole thing. He hailed the ’bus
by swinging the basket round and putting out his tongue at the driver.
The driver put his out in return, and the ’bus stopped. William,
holding the basket, entered. The ’bus was very full, but there was one
empty seat. William had taken this seat before he realised with horror
that on one side of him sat Miss Amelia Blake and on the other Miss
Cliff.
The ’bus had started again, and it was too late to get out. He went
rather pale, pretended not to see them, stared in front of him with a
set, stern expression on his face, and clasped the basket containing
Twinkie-Luky tightly to his bosom. Miss Amelia Blake and Miss Cliff did
not “know” each other. But they both knew William.
“Good morning, little boy,” said Miss Cliff.
“Mornin’,” muttered William, still staring straight in front of him.
“Good morning, William,” said Miss Blake.
“Mornin’,” muttered William.
“Have you been doing some shopping for your mother?” said Miss Blake
brightly.
“Umph!” said William, his eyes still fixed desperately on the opposite
window, the basket still clutched tightly to his breast.
“You must call and see my pussy again soon, little boy,” said Miss
Cliff.
A shadow passed over Miss Amelia Blake’s face.
“You haven’t seen Luky, have you, William? He’s been away all this
week.”
[Illustration: “LUKY!” CRIED MISS BLAKE.
“TWINKIE!” EXCLAIMED MISS CLIFF.
“HE’S MINE!”
“HE ISN’T!”]
William felt a spasmodic movement in the basket at the sound of the
name. He moistened his lips and shook his head.
Miss Amelia Blake was looking with interest at his basket. It
happened that she wanted a new shopping basket, and had called at the
basket-shop about one that morning.
[Illustration: A BLACK HEAD AROSE FROM THE BASKET AND PURRED.]
“May I look at your basket, William?” she said kindly. “I like these
covered baskets for shopping. The things can’t tumble out. On the other
hand, of course, you can’t get so many things in. Are the fastenings
firm?”
Her hand was outstretched innocently towards the fastenings. A cold
perspiration broke out over William. He put his hands desperately over
the fastenings.
“I wun’t--I wun’t touch ’em,” he said hoarsely. “It’s--it’s a bit full.
I wun’t like all the things to come tumblin’ out here.”
Miss Amelia Blake smiled agreement and Miss Cliff beamed on him from
the other side. William was wishing that the earth would open and
swallow up Miss Amelia Blake and Miss Cliff and Twinkie-Luky and
himself.
At last the ’bus stopped at the cross-road and they all got out.
William’s relief was indescribable. _That_ was over. And it was the
last time _he’d_ ever change their ole cats for ’em. He turned to go
down the road, but Miss Amelia Blake put her hand on his arm.
“I’ll hold it very carefully, William,” she pleaded. “I won’t let
anything tumble out, but I _do_ want to see if the fastenings of these
baskets are secure.”
Miss Cliff stood by smiling with interested curiosity. William mutely
abandoned himself to Fate. Miss Amelia Blake opened one fastening, the
flap turned back, and a black-whiskered head arose and looked around
with a purr.
“Luky!”
“Twinkie!”
“He’s mine.”
“I bought him at Mr. Gorton’s.”
“How _can_ you say he’s yours?”
“He’s mine,” cried Miss Cliff.
“He isn’t,” retorted Miss Blake.
“He knows me--_Twinkie!_”
“_Luky!_”
Both made a grab at Twinkie-Luky, but Twinkie-Luky escaped both and
flew like a dart down the road in the direction of Mr. Gorton’s. Like
all real gentlemen, Twinkie-Luky preferred death to a scene. William
was no coward, but even a braver man than William would have fled.
William’s fleeing figure was already half-way down the road in which
his home lay.
At the cross-roads Miss Amelia Blake and Miss Cliff clung to each other
hysterically and sent forth shrill, discordant cries after the fleeing
Twinkie-Luky.
“Twinkie, Twinkie, Twinkie, Twinkie, Twink-ee-ee-ee-ee-_ee!_”
“Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Lukee-ee-ee-ee-_ee!_”
And William ran as if all the cats in the world were at his heels.