"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 gave Thomas Henry every chance to reform; but he only went from bad to
worse, and added poaching and chicken-stalking to his other crimes, and I
grew tired of paying for his vices.
I consulted the gardener, and the gardener said he had known cats taken
that way before.
"Do you know of any cure for it?" I asked.
"Well, sir," replied the gardener, "I have heard as how a dose of
brickbat and pond is a good thing in a general way."
"We'll try him with a dose just before bed time," I answered. The
gardener administered it, and we had no further trouble with him.
Poor Thomas Henry! It shows to one how a reputation for respectability
may lie in the mere absence of temptation. Born and bred in the
atmosphere of the Reform Club, what gentleman could go wrong? I was
sorry for Thomas Henry, and I have never believed in the moral influence
of the country since.