[Illustration: HE ACCIDENTALLY RAN INTO THE MAN WITH THE BIG SPECTACLES.
_Jerry Todd and the Rose-Colored Cat._ _Frontispiece_--(_Page 4_)]
JERRY TODD
AND THE
ROSE-COLORED CAT
BY
LEO EDWARDS
AUTHOR OF
THE JERRY TODD BOOKS, ETC.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1921, by
THE SPRAGUE PUBLISHING CO.
Detroit, Mich.
COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY
GROSSET & DUNLAP
JERRY TODD SAYS:
The mystery part of this adventure really started the day we got Mrs.
Kepple’s letter saying she was shipping us her famous rose-colored cat,
Lady Victoria. Professor Stoner declared on the spot there was no such
thing as a rose-colored cat--only _he_ called it a feline. But right
there in front of our eyes was the letter. And just as plain as day it
read: “rose-colored cat.”
So we were all excited and went to the depot in a body the morning the
cat arrived. When we squinted into the box we got the surprise of our
lives. And I imagine _you’ll_ get something of a surprise when you read
about it.
For the most part the people in Tutter regarded our cat troubles as a
joke. We didn’t mind that. And you can snicker all you want to as you
read down through these pages. If you like the story well enough to
wish another like it, suppose you try my first book, JERRY TODD AND THE
WHISPERING MUMMY. In case you already have enjoyed the “mummy” story,
there is still my third book, JERRY TODD AND THE OAK ISLAND TREASURE,
and also JERRY TODD AND THE WALTZING HEN, book number four. These are
all stories about Scoop and me and Red and Peg. Full of mystery and
packed with clean fun.
My fifth book, JERRY TODD AND THE PUZZLE ROOM MYSTERY, is about a
haunted house. I guess this old house is the only one in the world
having a puzzle room. Therein lay the mystery. There is a ghost, and
heaps of fun. I imagine you’ll enjoy this book more than some of the
others if you particularly like spooky stories.
Your friend,
JERRY TODD.
OUR CHATTER-BOX
Here again I am providing a “Chatter-Box” for a book (this is Leo
Edwards speaking) that was published several years ago without a
“Chatter-Box.” As I explained in the new “Chatter-Box” in _Jerry Todd
and the Whispering Mummy_, “Our Chatter-Box,” a department open to all
readers of my books, both girls and boys, began with my sixteenth book.
Made up mainly of youthful contributions (letters, poems and so on)
this department soon gained great popularity. More and still more young
readers wrote to me, hoping to see their letters in print; and now my
publisher has given to me the very pleasing job of incorporating many
of these letters in brief “Chatter-Boxes” for all of my early volumes.
Writers of accepted poems will receive, as a reward, a free
autographed copy of the book in which their poem appears. Many fine
poems, featuring the characters in my books, are contained in the
“Chatter-Boxes” in the new Trigger Berg books and also in _Andy Blake
and the Pot of Gold_ and _Jerry Todd, Editor-in-Grief_. It will pay
you to read these poems. Then, if you wish, send me one of your own
original poems.
The many thousands of letters that I receive yearly from my loyal young
readers are a source of great inspiration to me. Boy, some of these
letters are hot! And how I enjoy them. I’m glad, too, that readers of
my books like long “Chatter-Boxes.” For that will give me a chance to
use a lot of letters in the big “Chatter-Boxes” in my new books. If you
haven’t written to me, please do so right away. We’re good buddies, you
know. I want to hear from you. And I sure will try and find a place for
your letter if it is interesting.
LETTERS
First on the list is a letter signed by two boy pals (now Freckled
Goldfish), Frank Johnson and Robert Dansby of Dallas, Texas.
“You sure must be a regular guy to write such swell boys’ books. We’d
like them better, though, if Jerry had a dog. Is there such a town as
Tutter? Are Jerry, Poppy, Scoop, Peg and Red real boys? In your book,
_Jerry Todd, Pirate_, who opened and closed the door and started and
stopped the clock in Al’s grandmother’s room? We certainly hope you’ll
keep on writing books of this kind.”
As I’ve said before, I try to be a regular guy. I sure love boys and
am with them a great deal, which, I suppose, explains why my stories
seem so real to young readers. Boys liking dogs will particularly
enjoy _Jerry Todd, Caveman_, in which Jerry’s new dog makes its first
appearance. The majority of the characters that I write about are real,
including Poppy, Red, Scoop, Peg, Al, Slats and Tail Light. Tutter
is the town (it has another name) in which I was raised. The full
explanation of who performed the “ghostly” movements in _Jerry Todd,
Pirate_, is given on page 246.
“I would like to have Jerry and his gang play baseball against the
Stricker gang,” writes Freckled Goldfish (No. 5069) George Ott (no
relation to Poppy!) of Brooklyn, N. Y. “Also I’d like to have Trigger
Berg and his gang play baseball against Tony Crooker’s mob for the
town championship. I think Trigger is the cat’s whiskers, and almost as
good as Jerry Todd. I notice in the _Elephant_ book that you said Jerry
collected stamps. I’m glad to see that, for stamp collecting is one of
my hobbies.”
“I’m a great reader,” writes Bud Lovett of Cleveland, Ohio, “and
in sleuthing May Company’s department store the clerk in the book
section suggested that I read one of your books. I did. Since then
I’ve invested almost ten bucks in your books. And do I ever love you
for writing such peachy books! I think you have made some mistakes in
your books. For instance, in the _Whispering Cave_ Jerry dreamt about
a cork tree. In the _Bob-Tailed Elephant_ Uncle Jonah tells Jerry and
Henny the same story, almost word for word. Some of your books are
masterpieces and some seem not so good--more of an effort. That part
is funny in the _Talking Frog_ where the frog and the talking machine
had a fight. It was funny, too, in another book (I think it was the
_Stuttering Parrot_) where Jerry, with the arm of the law watching him,
ate everything in sight, only to suffer later on when the stuff started
playing leapfrog inside of him. Though your Trigger Berg books haven’t
as much plot and mystery as your other books, I like the Bergs even
better. Gee, Leo, I’ve always lived in the city and never was in a gang
or owned a boat or had pals or adventures, so you are my only hope.
Please don’t stop writing! I wish that Jerry, Poppy, Andy, Trigger,
Peg, Red, Scoop, Al, Henny, Bud, Chuck, Friday, Slats, Tail Light,
Dynamite and all the rest were my honest-to-gosh pals.”
One time I wrote a short story called “Uncle Jonah’s Cork Tree.” Later
I used a small part of this story in the _Whispering Cave_. But when I
came to the _Bob-Tailed Elephant_ I had a _much better_ chance to use
the story, so repeated it, giving all the interesting little details,
figuring that the boys who missed the _Cave_ book would enjoy the story
in the _Elephant_ book. Bud isn’t the first reader who has called my
attention to this “mistake.”
I wish I had space for more general letters. But I have been told to
confine these added “Chatter-Boxes” to about eighteen hundred words.
But, as I say, we’re going to have some dandy big “Chatter-Boxes” in
all of my new books. So get your letter in as soon as possible, and
make it interesting.
FRECKLED GOLDFISH
Out of my book, _Poppy Ott and the Freckled Goldfish_, has grown our
great Freckled Goldfish lodge, membership in which is open to all boys
and girls who are interested in my books. Thousands of readers have
joined the club. We have peachy membership cards (designed by Bert
Salg, the popular illustrator of my books) and fancy buttons. Also for
members who want to organize branch clubs (hundreds are in successful
operation, providing boys and girls with added fun) we have rituals.
To join (and to be a loyal Jerry Todd fan I think you ought to join),
please observe these simple rules:
(1) Write (or print) your name plainly.
(2) Supply your complete printed address.
(3) Give your age.
(4) Enclose two two-cent postage stamps (for card and button).
(5) Address your letter to
Leo Edwards,
Cambridge,
Wisconsin.
LOCAL CHAPTERS
To help young organizers we have produced a printed ritual, which
any member who wants to start a Freckled Goldfish club in his own
neighborhood can’t afford to be without. This booklet tells how to
organize the club, how to conduct meetings, how to transact all
club business, and, probably most important of all, how to initiate
candidates.
The complete initiation is given word for word. Naturally, these
booklets are more or less secret. So, if you send for one, please
do not show it to anyone who isn’t a Freckled Goldfish. Three chief
officers will be required to put on the initiation, which can be
given in any member’s home, so, unless each officer is provided with
a booklet, much memorizing will have to be done. The best plan is to
have three booklets to a chapter. These may be secured (at cost) at
six cents each (three two-cent stamps) or three for sixteen cents
(eight two-cent stamps). Address all orders to Leo Edwards, Cambridge,
Wisconsin.
CLUB NEWS
In sending for a ritual, for organization purposes, Freckled Goldfish
(No. 2096) Franklin C. Massey of Philadelphia, Pa., writes: “I enjoyed
_Trigger Berg and His 700 Mouse Traps_ very much. I liked the part
where Trigger got the dog better than any other part because I have a
dog and know what they do.”
“Please enroll me as a member of the Freckled Goldfish lodge,” writes
Russell A. Smith of Port Richmond, Staten Island, N. Y. “I am thirteen
years old and have read all of your books, of which I like the Trigger
Bergs the best. I’ve often wondered what Scoop’s real name was.”
Scoop’s name is Howard.
“Your Jerry Todd and Poppy Ott books are the best books I have ever
read,” writes George B. Koelle of Philadelphia, Pa. “I wish, though,
you would give them names that better fit the book. For instance, I
think _Jerry Todd, Pirate_, should have been named _Jerry Todd and the
Oak Island Treasure_. I particularly like the way in which Jerry tells
the story himself. When I heard about your Freckled Goldfish lodge I
immediately wanted to join, hence this letter.”
“Our club,” writes William Hadley of Uxbridge, Mass., “would like to
buy a big framed picture of Poppy’s goldfish to put in our club-room.
Also we’d like to buy a big picture of you, our favorite author.
Everything is fine so far as the club is concerned, but I’m out of luck
myself--I’ve got the chicken pox. Let me know if you can furnish the
pictures and how much they will cost.”
Sorry, Bill, but I can’t supply you with an enlarged picture of Poppy’s
goldfish. Why don’t you make a cutout of a goldfish, or draw a picture
of one? You can do that. My publisher will send you one of my pictures
if you send ten cents in stamps to Grosset & Dunlap, 1140 Broadway, New
York, N. Y.
“I am sending you the minutes of the tenth meeting of our Goldfish
club,” reports Norman Wengert of Milwaukee, Wis. “Meeting started at
7:30 P.M. Dues were collected, giving us a total in the treasury of
more than four dollars. Members voted to attend the ‘Sky Hawk’ at a
local theater.”
There is a great deal more to Norman’s report. This certainly is an
active club. It holds checker and horseshoe tournaments and has its own
baseball nine. Recently the club raffled off a book, selling tickets
only to club members. Club leaders who sometimes wonder “what to do”
will do well to write for suggestions to Norman Wengert, 1019 Grant
Blvd., Milwaukee, Wis.
OUR SCHOOL CLUB
Have you heard about our School Club? Here’s the idea: Just as my Jerry
Todd, Poppy Ott and Trigger Berg books are written primarily to fill
the lives of boys with clean, natural fun, so also would I like to have
my young readers share this book fun of theirs with others. Which can
be done individually if you will prevail upon your teacher to read one
of my Todd, Ott or Berg books aloud. That will be fun for the whole
room. I might mention, too, that these books are written to read aloud.
If your teacher, through your personal efforts, reads one of my books
to the school, you automatically become a member of our “School Club,”
and should so notify me. Your name will be published in a later
“Chatter-Box.” At the end of each year names of all members (who
haven’t already drawn prizes) are put “into the hat.” Not less than ten
names (sometimes twenty or thirty) are drawn at random. And each of
these ten (or more) boys or girls will receive an autographed copy of
my latest book.
* * * * *
A more complete announcement of the club was given in the “Chatter-Box”
in _Jerry Todd, Editor-in-Grief_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE FELINE REST FARM 1
II CATS, AND MORE CATS! 21
III THE ROSE-COLORED CAT 44
IV LADY VICTORIA DISAPPEARS 55
V AN UNSUCCESSFUL OPERATION 63
VI A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 76
VII WANTED: ONE HUNDRED CATS 97
VIII OUR BARREL TRAP 109
IX THE FIRE IN THE BRICKYARD 133
X SIX PINK PEARLS 150
XI TWO MRS. KEPPLES 160
XII THE COPPER COLLAR 172
XIII AT THE INFIRMARY 191
XIV INDIANS! 215
XV WE SOLVE THE MYSTERY 234
LEO EDWARDS’ BOOKS
Here is a list of Leo Edwards’ published books:
THE JERRY TODD SERIES
JERRY TODD AND THE WHISPERING MUMMY
JERRY TODD AND THE ROSE-COLORED CAT
JERRY TODD AND THE OAK ISLAND TREASURE
JERRY TODD AND THE WALTZING HEN
JERRY TODD AND THE TALKING FROG
JERRY TODD AND THE PURRING EGG
JERRY TODD IN THE WHISPERING CAVE
JERRY TODD, PIRATE
JERRY TODD AND THE BOB-TAILED ELEPHANT
JERRY TODD, EDITOR-IN-GRIEF
JERRY TODD, CAVEMAN
JERRY TODD AND THE FLYING FLAPDOODLE
JERRY TODD AND THE BUFFALO BILL BATHTUB
JERRY TODD’S UP-THE-LADDER CLUB
THE POPPY OTT SERIES
POPPY OTT AND THE STUTTERING PARROT
POPPY OTT’S SEVEN-LEAGUE STILTS
POPPY OTT AND THE GALLOPING SNAIL
POPPY OTT’S PEDIGREED PICKLES
POPPY OTT AND THE FRECKLED GOLDFISH
POPPY OTT AND THE TITTERING TOTEM
POPPY OTT AND THE PRANCING PANCAKE
POPPY OTT HITS THE TRAIL
POPPY OTT & CO., INFERIOR DECORATORS
JERRY TODD AND THE ROSE-COLORED CAT
CHAPTER I
THE FELINE REST FARM
Did you ever hear of a feline rest farm? We never did till the day we
came across Professor Ellsworth Stoner at the Rock Island depot. Till
that time we had always thought a cat was a cat, but the professor,
after telling us that he was an authority on cats, having studied them
all his life along what he termed scientific lines, told us that a cat
was a “feline.”
I guess Peg Shaw and I would have particularly noticed the professor
even if Scoop Ellery hadn’t pointed him out to us. He was a noticeable
man. I don’t mean he was distinguished-looking, like some of the
professors and doctors in our college on the hill. What made him
noticeable was his odd appearance and queer actions.
I am a great hand to study people’s faces. When I see a man with a
kindly face I am naturally attracted to him. Where a man has a mean
face I make it a point to keep out of his way. The tall, thin stranger,
I noticed, had an unusually kindly face. I knew right off that here was
a man who wouldn’t harm a flea. But even in my respect for him I had to
smile as I regarded him closely, taking in the big-rimmed spectacles
that rested loosely on his big nose, and the old-fashioned collar and
necktie. He had on a black suit and a black soft hat. From his general
appearance I took him to be a minister. He was mixed up in the crowd of
Chicago people who were leaving the train, headed for the Walkers Lake
Sanitarium.
Spider Phelps, who drives a summer bus between Tutter and the
sanitarium, had his outfit backed up against the depot platform. His
homely face screwed all out of shape, he was yelling into the crowd:
“Right over here, ladies and gents. Here’s the bus for the sanitarium.
Goin’ right out.”
Walkers Lake is about three miles south of Tutter and the sanitarium
built on its shore is a pretty swell joint. It is a cluster of
buildings, the largest of which contains fully two hundred rooms. I
guess it costs a lot of money to stay there and that is why the guests
are mostly rich people from Chicago and Peoria--Tutter being situated
about half way between these two cities. The visitors come and stay for
two or three weeks at a time, not so much because they are sick but
because they are tired and want to rest up in a fashionable way. It’s
something of a fad, I guess, for rich people to patronize places like
the Walkers Lake Sanitarium.
“Gee, fellows, lamp the deacon,” Scoop cried, pointing to where the man
with the funny spectacles had paused on the platform, glancing about
him uncertainly. He had no suit-case or traveling bag like the other
passengers--just a covered basket, which he carried on his right arm.
Scoop laughed and jabbed Peg in the ribs with his elbow. “Why don’t you
go over,” he suggested, “and carry the basket? You’ll get a tip--maybe.”
Peg had a reflective look on his face.
“Queer,” said he out of his thoughts.
“What’s queer?” Scoop wanted to know.
“That he should be going to the sanitarium. It’s a pretty lively place
for a minister.”
Scoop laughed.
“Maybe he’ll get the shock of his life when he sees the way they dance
and carry on. I guess they play cards, too.”
I didn’t say anything. But I had the feeling that the stranger wasn’t
heading for the sanitarium as Peg and Scoop imagined. I don’t know what
gave me that thought unless it was the uncertainty and bewilderment
pictured in the man’s thin face.
Red Meyers, who is the fourth member of our gang, was helping a big fat
lady with black earrings carry a couple of fuzzy-haired dogs and a big
traveling bag from the train to the bus. She looked as though she might
be worth a lot of money. Anyway Red had picked her out as likely to
give him a good tip.
While we were watching, the baggage man came down the platform with a
truck piled high with trunks and boxes. He accidentally ran into the
man with the big spectacles, causing the latter to drop his basket. The
basket rolled along the platform and bumped against Red, who was having
an awful time trying to carry the two dogs and the big traveling bag at
the same time. When the basket struck his legs the cover flopped back
and out popped a frightened coal-black cat.
Gee-miny crickets! It was as good as a circus to see the way those two
dogs got into action when they spied the cat. Red tried to hang onto
them but they clawed and scratched till he had to drop them. When they
landed on the platform they gave a wild yelp and started pell-mell for
the cat. Around and around the platform they went, making a fearful
racket and commotion. Women screamed and ran for the bus. Peg and I and
Scoop pretty nearly yipped our heads off we were so tickled.
The fat lady with the black earrings got excited when she saw her dogs
hotfooting it after the black cat. She danced around and scolded Red
who dropped the traveling bag and tried to grab the dogs. He yelled
for us to help him. By this time everybody on the platform was yelling
except the stranger with the big spectacles.
“Dear me! Dear me!” the tall man said slowly, looking on in a
bewildered way. Picking up his hat, which had been jostled from his
head, he dusted it carefully with his handkerchief and then reached
for the basket. When he noticed that the basket was empty he gave a
startled cry and stared helplessly into the faces about him.
Red was skidding around the platform grabbing at the dogs. They were
small dogs, but for their size they made a lot of noise. He managed
to get hold of one by the tail. It turned and snapped at his fingers,
which made him mad. It doesn’t take much to make Red mad. His temper is
as fiery as his hair. When the fat lady began scolding him for pulling
her dog’s tail he told her she could catch her own dogs for all he
cared.
Then some one yelled to forget about the dogs and rescue the cat. Scoop
saw it heading his way and grabbed it just in time to save its tail
from being snapped off by one of the dogs. After that the fat lady had
no difficulty rounding up her pets. She cuddled them in her arms and I
thought for a moment she was going to kiss them. The last we saw of her
she was indignantly climbing into the bus, a dog under each fat arm,
Spider Phelps following with the traveling bag.
Scoop ran up to the man with the big spectacles.
“Here’s your cat, mister,” he said, offering the pet to its owner.
The stranger looked the cat over with a great deal of concern. A sigh
of relief escaped from his lips when he found the cat’s tail and
everything else in proper shape.
“Dear me!” he murmured, stroking the cat with the tips of his long thin
fingers. “How unfortunate that my little companion should be subjected
to such rude and savage treatment.” He beamed at Scoop over the top of
his spectacles. “I am deeply grateful to you, my boy, for interposing
and saving my little pet from those very vicious and ill-bred canines.”
Scoop turned to me and grinned. Calling dogs canines was something new
to us. No one in Tutter had ever called dogs by such a fancy name. I
figured that the man must be a college professor instead of a minister.
Then, when the crowd had melted away and we were seated on the
platform, the stranger told us that he _was_ a professor--though he had
no connection with the Tutter College. His name was Professor Ellsworth
Stoner and he told us in a modest way that he knew more about cats than
any other man in the whole world. He further explained that he had come
to Tutter to start a feline rest farm.
Well, I wanted to laugh. A feline rest farm! It struck me as being a
crazy idea. I thought at first he was joking. The others thought so,
too. I could tell from their actions. But he wasn’t joking. No, sir-e!
It was his idea to fix up a place where the cats could be taken care
of, then advertise it as an exclusive feline rest farm. He told us he
would soon be swamped with business.
In telling us about his scheme he used a lot of big words. He said
among other things that the cat was one of the most glorious creatures
in the world--that years and years and years ago the Egyptians used to
embalm their cats just like human beings. That was the “golden age of
her Feline Majesty,” is the way he put it. He told us about the big cat
cemeteries along the River Nile. It was interesting. I could see he
knew a great deal about cats.
“The many years of exhaustive study that I have given to the subject
will excellently fit me for the work that I am about to take up,” he
went on. “My first step will be to establish a suitable feline domicile
and then----”
“Establish a which?” Scoop interrupted, letting his forehead go
puckered.
“A feline domicile.”
“What’s a feline domicile?” inquired Scoop.
“I am referring, of course, to the home I shall establish for my feline
guests,” explained the professor.
Scoop grunted.
“If you go talking that dictionary stuff around town you’ll establish
something, all right, but it won’t be a home for sick cats.”
The professor looked bewildered.
“I--er--fail to comprehend,” he murmured.
“You’ll establish a reputation for being a nut,” Scoop said bluntly.
“A nut?”
“Yes, a nut.”
“How extraordinary!”
Scoop saw that it was no use talking slang to the professor.
“Never mind,” he grinned. “Go ahead with your yarn. You left off where
you were establishing a dormitory, or something.”
“A feline domicile,” the professor corrected. “When this has been
provided I shall advertise in the Chicago newspapers. I am sure the
wealthy people who have occasion to depart from their homes during
the sultry summer months will be extremely glad to learn that their
pet felines can be accommodated at my rest farm and cared for along
strictly scientific lines.”
I could see doubt in Scoop’s face.
“You say the rich people will pay you real money for taking care of
their cats?” he questioned, regarding the other with narrowed eyes.
The professor frowned in mild disapproval.
“I much prefer the term ‘feline’ to ‘cat,’” he said. “To my cultured
ear the term ‘cat’ sounds very vulgar. Yes,” he went on, “I shall make
a charge of one dollar per feline per week. At first I shall arrange
to accommodate one hundred felines--a matter of one hundred dollars per
week.” He paused and cleaned his spectacles with a handkerchief. When
they were polished to his satisfaction he returned them to his nose
and added: “You seem to be nice, bright boys. I am wondering if I can
engage you to assist me in the undertaking.”
Scoop backed off. I knew why. Right away I got suspicious, too. One
time a shyster came to town and told us what smart boys we were and
skinned us out of five dollars for memberships in his fake detective
agency. I told about that in my book about the whispering mummy. Now
another stranger was giving us the same line of soft-soap. It wouldn’t
do him any good. We were wise. What little money we had would stay
right in our pockets.
“There will be a suitable remuneration,” the man continued. “Suppose we
say five dollars each per week.”
I saw now that we had been overly suspicious.
“You mean you want us to work for you; and that you will pay each of us
five dollars a week?” Scoop questioned shortly.
The professor nodded.
“I rather feel that five dollars a week will be a just stipend,” he
said gravely.
Peg threw up his arms and pretended he was going to faint.
“Help!” he cried. “Some one fan me with a dictionary.”
Scoop turned and scowled.
“Cut it out,” he ordered. Then he said to the professor: “What do we do
to earn the five dollars?”
“I shall train you in the scientific care of my feline guests. There
will be regular feeding hours; and, of course, systematic recreation.
I cannot possibly manage the business and attend to all the details of
operation. If you feel you would like to assist me in the work----”
“You can consider us hired,” Scoop cut in. “This is vacation time and
we’ll work for you as long as there’s a regular pay-day. What do we do
first?”
The professor seemed pleased at Scoop’s decision. But he wasn’t half
as tickled as I was. Here was an easy way to earn five dollars a week
was my contented thought. Lots easier than hoeing corn in the river
bottoms, which I did one summer for fifty cents a day and almost
chopped my big toe off. I knew Dad and Mother would be pleased when
they heard about my swell new job. Dad says a boy should always keep
his eyes and ears open and learn useful things. I figured that in
associating with the professor I would learn a lot of useful things
about cats. When you come to think about it there aren’t very many
people who know very much about cats. A cat is born and lives and
dies and that is the end of it. We know a lot about horses and cows.
Magazines print stories about dogs, showing that dogs are well
understood. But I never saw a story about a cat. I like cats, too.
It would be nice to learn all about them. Every day I would learn
something new. I was anxious to get started on my new job.
In answer to Scoop’s question the professor explained that the first
thing to do was to find a suitable location for establishing the rest
farm.
“We shall require a somewhat sizable building,” he outlined. “It should
be rather apart from the community so that we shall not be disturbed.”
Scoop’s thoughts carried him away. Then he came back to earth and
gripped my arm.
“Say, Jerry, how about the old cement mill back of your pa’s brickyard?”
“Just the place,” I said, sharing his excitement.
The old mill wasn’t good for anything. Years ago the machinery was
junked for old iron. There are holes in the wooden walls and roof, but
I figured this wouldn’t interfere very much. In talking it over Peg
suggested that we see Dad before going any further with our plans, so
we took the professor along with us to find out would it be all right
to turn the old mill into a cat farm.
It took us ten minutes to reach the brickyard, which is near the canal
on the west side of town. Dad was in his office. He looked kind of
surprised when we entered with the professor. I guess he thought, like
we did at first, that our new friend was a minister.
“Howdy, gang,” he greeted, grinning down at us as he shook hands. Dad’s
always friendly and full of fun. “Some one getting married to-day?--or
are we taking up a missionary collection for the Hottentots?” he added.
“This is Professor Ellsworth Stoner,” I introduced. “He knows all about
cats and----”
“You mean catalogs?” interrupted Dad, looking from me to the professor.
“No; just plain cats,” I said.
The professor came forward. He looked comical with the big-rimmed
spectacles jiggling on the end of his big nose and the basket on his
arm. He had a funny way, too, of peering solemnly over the top of his
spectacles.
A grin crept into Dad’s face.
“Might I--er--suggest,” the professor interrupted in a mild voice,
“that hereafter in our reference to the _felis domestica_ we use the
term ‘feline’ instead of ‘cat.’ To me the term ‘cat’ seems common
and does not do justice to the gorgeous creature that in the days
of Egypt’s splendor held the awe and admiration of even the mighty
Pharaohs.”
Dad’s stenographer went, “Tee, hee, hee!” and stuffed her handkerchief
into her mouth. But Dad didn’t giggle. He has better manners than Miss
Tubbs. Maybe he wanted to laugh, but if he did he choked it down,
like I do in church when something funny happens. Dad has a lot of
consideration for other people’s feelings.
“I’m mighty glad to meet you, professor,” he said, again pumping the
thin arm up and down. This jiggled the basket and started the black cat
to yowling. “All my life,” added Dad, running off into his nonsense,
“I’ve been wanting to meet some one who was an authority on cats. Yes,
sir, I’m tickled pink to make your acquaintance.”
The professor beamed.
“And I, sir, am _de_-lighted to meet you. This is an honor I long
shall remember! If, as you say, you are scientifically interested
in felines, we shall, in the days to come, enjoy many happy moments
discussing their anatomy, their physiology and magnificent personality.”
“Absolutely,” said Dad. “You took the words right out of my mouth.
Anatomy is what I’m most interested in. We’ll discuss that first if you
have no objection. Now I wonder----” and he ran his fingers through his
hair, letting his forehead go puckered.
There was a brief reflective silence.
“I am wondering,” continued Dad, “if it will be best for us to start in
on the anatomy at the ears and work down, or start in at the tail and
work up.”
I didn’t know how far he would carry his joke, so I decided to butt in.
Very quickly I told about the professor’s cat farm scheme and asked
would it be all right for us to use the old mill. I explained that I
was to work for the professor and earn five dollars a week.
Dad had a puzzled look when I finished.
“Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “As I understand it you
are going to start a--er--feline rest farm in the old mill, advertise
in the Chicago newspapers for ca--I mean felines, and have a bunch
shipped in here with the idea of collecting a dollar a week per feline
from the owners. Am I right?”
The professor beamed at Dad and nodded.
“Sir,” he said, “you have given in brief a very comprehensive outline
of my contemplated project.”
“And you are going to start with one hundred ca--I mean felines?”
“Exactly, sir; exactly.”
Dad’s eyes twinkled like he was all bubbly inside.
“What’s the use of being pikers?” said he. “Let’s make it two hundred
cats. Shucks! Let’s make it a thousand. That will be a thousand dollars
every week. This is a wonderful scheme,” he added, letting on like he
was terribly excited over the proposition. “You’re to be congratulated,
professor. Any common dub can see money in bricks but it takes a genius
to see money in cats. Yes, sir, I’m with you till Niagara falls.
Absolutely. Use the old mill by all means. Do anything with it that you
want to.”
We thanked Dad and passed on through the brickyard. The old mill is
located on the side of a hill. There is a door in front that opens into
the lower floor, but we decided to use the second floor, which was
reached by climbing the hill and entering a wide door at the back. The
second floor was in every way the cleanest and there was better light
here.
The professor teetered about the room on his long, willowy legs, as
tickled as a small kid with an all-day sucker.
“How does it strike you?” said Scoop, acting like he wanted to be
handed a little praise for being smart and suggesting the old mill as a
good place to establish the cat farm.
“Excellent,” murmured the professor. “I can, in fact, imagine no place
better adapted to our immediate needs. Roomy, airy, dry. Um---- We
shall require a goodly supply of boxes of suitable proportions in
which to house our feline guests. Doubtless we can acquire them at the
mercantile shops in the village.”
“You won’t get ’em for nothing,” Scoop said quickly. “I know, because
my father runs a grocery store.”
“I venture to say the charge will not be exorbitant,” returned the
professor. “I have some money with me. Suppose we see how many suitable
boxes we can purchase for five dollars,” and producing a pocketbook he
handed Scoop a crisp greenback.
We had a lot of fun that day helping the professor arrange things
in the old mill. And as we worked with him we absorbed much of his
confidence in the scheme. Like Peg said, in the big cities they have
hospitals for dogs and other pets. He read about it in a magazine. And
he told us about a doll hospital in New York City. All they do in this
hospital is put new arms and legs on old dolls. If people could make
a success of a doll hospital I saw no reason why we couldn’t make a
success of the feline rest farm. Take the rich people who patronize the
Walkers Lake Sanitarium. They cheerfully pay two prices for everything.
What would a dollar a week mean to them in considering the welfare of
their pet cats? Not a drop in the bucket, hardly. Yes, sir, we were
every bit as excited over the proposition as the professor and fully as
confident that it was going to be a money-making scheme.
There is a little room to one side on the second floor of the old mill
and here we brought in a cot that Red found in his pa’s barn. The
professor seemed to have plenty of money. He bought a small gasoline
stove for cooking purposes and a lot of truck to eat. Mostly canned
things like beans and cooked meat. When we were ready to go home to
supper Scoop said it didn’t seem right to leave the old gentleman all
alone in the mill, so we got two more cots and prepared to stay with
him nights, two of us at a time.
At the supper table that evening Dad was full of nonsense. He talked
persistently of “felines,” reminding us of the swell time he was going
to have visiting with the professor. After a bit Mother told him to
quit acting the dunce. She pinched my knee under the table and said
the feline rest farm was a dandy scheme and she hoped everything would
turn out all right. That’s Mother for you! She knows how to stand by a
fellow and _believe_ in him.
“Of course,” she added, looking into my face, “you will want to be
careful and not let the cats----”
“Felines,” Dad corrected with a grin. “My dear lady, must I again
remind you that the term ‘cat’ sounds very common and fails to do
justice to the gorgeous creature that put Egypt on the map?”
Mother reached for the salt.
“I said cats and I mean cats,” she sputtered, jiggling the salt shaker.
Dad sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
“All right,” he said, “have it your own way.”
“As I was going to say, Jerry,” she went on, “I hope you will be
careful and not let the cats bite you and give you hydrophobia.”
I slowed up on my potatoes and looked into her face.
“You are thinking of dogs,” I said. “Cats don’t give people
hydrophobia.”
“The cats may give you something worse than hydrophobia,” she
persisted. “I want you to promise me you will be careful.”
I told her there was nothing to worry about. I said it was going to be
fun.