I
"M-e-a-t! M-e-a-t!" came shrilling down Scrimper's Alley. Surely the
Pied Piper of Hamelin was there, for it seemed that all the Cats in the
neighborhood were running toward the sound, though the Dogs, it must be
confessed, looked scornfully indifferent.
"Meat! Meat!" and louder; then the centre of attraction came in view--a
rough, dirty little man with a push-cart; while straggling behind him
were a score of Cats that joined in his cry with a sound nearly the
same as his own. Every fifty yards, that is, as soon as a goodly throng
of Cats was gathered, the push-cart stopped. The man with the magic
voice took out of the box in his cart a skewer on which were pieces of
strong-smelling boiled liver. With a long stick he pushed the pieces
off. Each Cat seized on one, and wheeling, with a slight depression of
the ears and a little tiger growl and glare, she rushed away with her
prize to devour it in some safe retreat.
"Meat! Meat!" And still they came to get their portions. All were well
known to the meat-man. There was Castiglione's Tiger; this was Jones's
Black; here was Pralitsky's "Torkershell," and this was Madame Danton's
White; there sneaked Blenkinshoff's Maltee, and that climbing on the
barrow was Sawyer's old Orange Billy, an impudent fraud that never had
had any financial backing,--all to be remembered and kept in account.
This one's owner was sure pay, a dime a week; that one's doubtful.
There was John Washee's Cat, that got only a small piece because John
was in arrears. Then there was the saloon-keeper's collared and
ribboned ratter, which got an extra lump because the 'barkeep' was
liberal; and the rounds-man's Cat, that brought no cash, but got
unusual consideration because the meat-man did. But there were others.
A black Cat with a white nose came rushing confidently with the rest,
only to be repulsed savagely. Alas! Pussy did not understand. She had
been a pensioner of the barrow for months. Why this unkind change? It
was beyond her comprehension. But the meat-man knew. Her mistress had
stopped payment. The meat-man kept no books but his memory, and it
never was at fault.
Outside this patrician 'four hundred' about the barrow, were other
Cats, keeping away from the push-cart because they were not on the
list, the Social Register as it were, yet fascinated by the heavenly
smell and the faint possibility of accidental good luck. Among these
hangers-on was a thin gray Slummer, a homeless Cat that lived by her
wits--slab-sided and not over-clean. One could see at a glance that she
was doing her duty by a family in some out-of-the-way corner. She kept
one eye on the barrow circle and the other on the possible Dogs.
She saw a score of happy Cats slink off with their delicious 'daily'
and their tiger-like air, but no opening for her, till a big Tom of her
own class sprang on a little pensioner with intent to rob. The victim
dropped the meat to defend herself against the enemy, and before the
'all-powerful' could intervene, the gray Slummer saw her chance, seized
the prize, and was gone.
She went through the hole in Menzie's side door and over the wall at
the back, then sat down and devoured the lump of liver, licked her
chops, felt absolutely happy, and set out by devious ways to the
rubbish-yard, where, in the bottom of an old cracker-box, her family
was awaiting her. A plaintive mewing reached her ears. She went at
speed and reached the box to see a huge Black Tom-cat calmly destroying
her brood. He was twice as big as she, but she went at him with all her
strength, and he did as most animals will do when caught wrong-doing,
he turned and ran away. Only one was left, a little thing like its
mother, but of more pronounced color--gray with black spots, and a
white touch on nose, ears, and tail-tip. There can be no question of
the mother's grief for a few days; but that wore off, and all her care
was for the survivor. That benevolence was as far as possible from the
motives of the murderous old Tom there can be no doubt; but he proved a
blessing in deep disguise, for both mother and Kit were visibly
bettered in a short time. The daily quest for food continued. The
meat-man rarely proved a success, but the ash-cans were there, and if
they did not afford a meat-supply, at least they were sure to produce
potato-skins that could be used to allay the gripe of hunger for
another day.
One night the mother Cat smelt a wonderful smell that came from the
East River at the end of the alley. A new smell always needs
investigating, and when it is attractive as well as new, there is but
one course open. It led Pussy to the docks a block away, and then out
on a wharf, away from any cover but the night. A sudden noise, a growl
and a rush, were the first notice she had that she was cut off by her
old enemy, the Wharf Dog. There was only one escape. She leaped from
the wharf to the vessel from which the smell came. The Dog could not
follow, so when the fish-boat sailed in the morning Pussy unwillingly
went with her and was seen no more.