WANTED: ONE HUNDRED CATS
The knowledge that a mysterious prowler had positively entered the mill
in the dead of night to undoubtedly steal Mrs. Kepple’s rose-colored
cat filled us with nervous apprehension and sent our minds into
scattered speculation. Who was he? What did he want of the cat? And why
did he come for it under cover of darkness?
A prolonged conversation failed to bring probable answers to these
puzzling questions. So we decided to let the mystery rest and get
some needed sleep. Before turning in, however, we barred the door and
latched the windows in the thought that the prowler might possibly
return to continue his strange quest.
The sun was high in the sky and the world without the mill lay tepid
in the heat of a new summer day when I awakened. Running into the
adjoining room I made sure that the door bars and window latches were
undisturbed. Then I got the other fellows out of bed.
Scoop squinted at his watch and yawned.
“Nine o’clock,” said he.
“Fat chance of ma cooking breakfast for me at this time of day,”
grumbled Red.
“We’ll get our own breakfast,” said Peg. Crossing the room he squinted
at the shelves containing the professor’s supply of food. “Here’s bacon
and eggs,” he told us, “and corn flakes. If Mrs. Maloney will let us
have some fresh milk I guess we’ll be able to make out a satisfactory
meal.”
Shortly after breakfast Mother and Mrs. Meyers climbed the hill and
entered the mill.
“We came to see if you were alive this morning,” laughed Mother,
smoothing down my hair.
“Yes,” puffed Mrs. Meyers, like she was out of wind, “and we came to
see the cats.”
“Well,” grinned Scoop, “they’re all in sight and ready for inspection.
Just help yourself,” he motioned.
“Goodness gracious!” cried Mother. “What a lot of cats.” She turned to
where I was standing. “I thought you told me you had gotten rid of all
but eleven.”
I explained about the farmer and the wagon load of cats from the dairy
farm.
“How lucky you are to get the cats back,” put in Mrs. Meyers when I
concluded.
“Lucky?” I repeated, wondering what did she mean by such a careless use
of the word. Not for one instant did we consider ourselves lucky in
the return of the cats. To the exact contrary we felt that we were a
million times out of luck.
“When you can sell your cats for twenty-five cents apiece,” Mrs. Meyers
continued, “it would be foolish to give them away.”
I thought, of course, that she was joking. It could not be otherwise,
because there was no market for cats at a cent apiece let alone
twenty-five cents.
“Don’t be so sure of that,” laughed Mrs. Meyers, and locating a
newspaper clipping in her handbag she read:
WANTED: 100 cats by Saturday night. I will pay 25c. each. Phone 9044.
“If I were you,” advised Mother, on the instant that Mrs. Meyers’ voice
died away, “I would get in touch with this cat buyer immediately.
Otherwise, some person with a supply of cats may get in ahead of you.”
Scoop reached for the clipping and regarded it with puzzled eyes.
Presently he inquired:
“Was this in the Tutter newspaper?”
Mrs. Meyers nodded.
“Last night was the first I noticed it,” she informed.
“Maybe,” suggested Mother, “you can mark down the price of your cats
and get rid of them in one lot.”
Scoop lifted his eyes from the clipping and gave a queer laugh.
“I can’t make myself believe that any sane person would advertise for
cats and offer to pay twenty-five cents apiece for them,” he declared.
“But it says so in the advertisement,” Mrs. Meyers put in.
“I bet you,” Scoop added reflectively, “that the ad is a fake. Yes,
sir! Just like the letter we got yesterday. Some smart geezer who
knows we have the cats is trying to put up a joke on us. I don’t know
what the joke is, but I suspect that if we called up 9044 we’d get
instructions to deliver the cats at the Eureka Laundry to be washed, or
some such crazy thing. Huh!”
I knew that Scoop was right. Absolutely. To take any other view would
be ridiculous. As he pointed out, no person with brains would advertise
for one hundred cats in good faith and actually pay money for them.
I told myself that whoever paid for the advertisement had wasted his
money. _We_ wouldn’t bite. Not so you can notice it. After what had
happened in connection with the fake letter we were too foxy to be
taken in by the advertisement.
Mother and Mrs. Meyers commented on our varied assortment of cats as
they passed in front of the boxes.
“Oh,” cried Red’s mother, “what a cunning black cat.”
We told her it was the cat Professor Stoner brought to Tutter in the
covered basket.
“I always liked black cats,” continued Mrs. Meyers, “because they
are so easy to keep clean. Usually, though, a black cat has some
disfiguring spots. This cat seems to be coal-black.”
“All except its tongue,” joked Scoop, “and that’s pink.”
I spoke up and told Mrs. Meyers she could have the black cat if she
wanted it.
“Gosh, yes,” put in Scoop, “and you can have a dozen more if you say
the word.”
She thanked us dryly and stated that one cat was an ample sufficiency.
Stooping, she raised the slats and took the black cat from its box.
“I hope you boys learn that the advertisement was inserted in the
_Globe_ in good faith,” said Mother, as she and her companion were
leaving.
We politely said we hoped so, too, and thanked both of them for
their trouble in coming to the mill to tell us about the cat buyer.
Down in our hearts, though, we had not a particle of doubt that the
advertisement was a fake. As Scoop told us, it was a good thing to keep
away from.
That noon when Red came back from dinner he was so full of giggles he
could hardly talk straight.
“What do you know,” he cried, “if the Strickers aren’t fine-combing the
town for stray cats.”
Peg gave the newcomer a suspicious scowl and asked what the joke was.
“The joke is on the Strickers,” gurgled Red as he came up for air.
“They saw the advertisement in the newspaper and it’s their bright idea
to clean up a lot of jack selling cats.”
Scoop let out a yip.
“Ain’t they the poor boobs,” he laughed, “to fall for that fake ad? I
tell you what, fellows: let’s make it our business to be on hand when
they deliver the cats, so we can give them the horselaugh.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Peg, his black eyes snapping.
It was important in the working of Scoop’s plan for one of us to keep
an eye on the Strickers, so Red disappeared in the direction of town.
At four-thirty he came back on the run.
“Quick, fellows! They’ve started out with their cats.”
Hurriedly locking the mill door, we beat it down the hill and followed
on Red’s flying heels until we overtook the Strickers in Grove Street.
“They’re heading for the Treebury pike,” he explained.
A surprised look crept into Peg’s broad face.
“Is the cat buyer located in the country?” he inquired.
“It’s some one living in the big brick house near the Morgan
crossroads. Tommy Hegan told me. He overheard Bid Stricker telephoning.”
Scoop gave another contented laugh.
“Yes,” he put in, “Bid _thinks_ the cat buyer lives there. Like as
not, though, the owner of the brick house knows nothing about the
cat advertisement.” There was a brief silence. “Yes, sir,” Scoop
continued, “I’d be willing to bet my Sunday shirt against a last-year’s
bird nest that the Strickers are due for a shock when they parade up
the front steps of the house to deliver their cats. Huh! I hope they
get doused with water.”
“Or get whacked with a broom,” supplemented Red, recalling his
humiliation on Miss Prindle’s front porch.
“We’ll keep well behind,” planned Peg, “so they won’t see us or suspect
they are being followed. Then when the door is slammed in their faces
we’ll give them the hee-haw. Good and plenty. They’ll think _we_ put up
the joke on them.”
“And when they lug the cats back to town,” giggled Red, “we can hoot at
them from behind: ‘Please sell us some of your cats,’ like they hooted
at us last night.”
The gang ahead of us consisted of five boys. Bid Stricker pulled a
coaster wagon containing a big crate. Just how many cats were shut in
the crate we could only imagine. Jimmy Stricker steadied the crate on
one side and another member of the gang did the same on the opposite
side. In this way they passed out of town on the Treebury pike,
covering a stretch of possibly two miles before they came to the old
brick house that is considered something of a landmark in our section.
Concealed in the shrubbery, we watched them pass up the front porch
steps. And as Bid Stricker cranked the old-fashioned door-bell I
tingled happily in the thought that he was sort of walking into the
spider’s parlor, only he didn’t suspect it. There he stood all chesty
and confident on one side of the closed door, and on the inner side
Trouble was exercising its muscles. Very soon he’d catch it. I was glad.
Presently a young man came to the door. There was some low-voiced
conversation; then, to our amazement, the young man came onto the lawn
and interestedly inspected the cats through the slats of the crate.
Well, I don’t like to write down what followed. A fellow with pride
in his system hates to admit defeat at the hands of the enemy. And,
as Scoop said later, defeat, as a word, only mildly describes what we
got handed to us. You’ll understand what I mean when I tell you that
the man actually paid the Strickers money for their cats. We could see
the silver pieces shine in his hands as he extended the money to Bid.
And we could see the silver sparkle in Bid’s hands as he counted the
pieces to make sure he was getting all that was due him.
Right then and there we went sick and disgusted. Crowding up in our
minds was the humiliating realization that the Strickers had gotten
in ahead of us in supplying the buyer with cats we could have easily
supplied had we been less quick to brag to one another how smart we
were to detect the joker in the advertisement. Mother and Mrs. Meyers
had expressed their opinion that the advertisement was sincere. We had
paid no attention to what they said. We thought we knew more than they
did. Now it was plain to us that they were wholly right. It was an
unhappy situation for us.
There wasn’t much talk between us as we slunk into town in the wake
of the jubilant Stricker gang. Our usual pep and self-confidence had
deserted us. Ahead, the Strickers were singing and whistling. What
filled them with happiness was the thought of all the ice cream sodas
and chocolate bars their money would buy. It was our money, I told
myself. And I hated Bid Stricker worse than ever for cheating us out
of it. As a matter of fact, there was no actual cheating, and the
Strickers were entitled to the money. But I was angry enough to take
the other view. You know how it is with a boy sometimes.
The tower clock on College Hill struck six times as we came dejectedly
into town.
“I guess,” Scoop said quietly, “we’ll keep this to ourselves.”
“I guess you said a mouthful,” Peg agreed dismally.
“They didn’t have more than twenty cats,” continued Scoop. “The man
wants one hundred. Bright and early to-morrow morning _we’ll_ do some
cat selling. Um---- Eighty cats at a quarter apiece will bring us
twenty dollars.”
Red brightened.
“No need to be downhearted,” said he, “with all that money chasing
after us.”
“Yes,” agreed Scoop, “our luck might be worse.” Scowling, he continued:
“It galls me, though, to think that we were asleep at the switch and
let the Strickers get in ahead of us.”
“They don’t know we trailed them into the country to give them the
horselaugh,” Red reminded quickly.
“That,” returned Scoop, “is the only comforting thought.”
Peg had a reflective expression on his face.
“I can’t for the life of me figure out what a man wants with one
hundred cats. For my part I’d as soon have one hundred toothaches
wished onto me.”
“Or one hundred baths,” I put in.
“It’s unusual,” agreed Scoop, nodding his head. His thoughts carried
him away and we walked several paces in silence. “Um---- I wonder
is there any connection between this sudden demand for cats and the
prowler’s visit to the mill last night.” Pausing, he searched our eyes.
“Maybe, fellows,” he added, a queer note in his voice, “this cat buyer
and the man who got whanged with Jerry’s club are one and the same
person.”
We couldn’t say with any certainty did Scoop have the right dope or
not. He’s an easy jumper when it comes to forming conclusions. Lots of
times in his jumping he gets himself tangled up. But what he said about
the cat buyer gave us something to think about, to say the least.