THE SPECTRE CAT.
"That's a rum start," said Constable Wigg. "Was it Mr. Felix?"
"No," replied Constable Nightingale, "Mr. Felix is altogether a
different kind of man. Takes things more coolly. Walks slow, talks
slow, thinks slow, looks at you slow. This fellow was like a flash of
lightning. Did you catch sight of his face?"
"He was in such a devil of a hurry that there was no catching sight of
anything except the red handkerchief round his neck. There was no
mistaking that. Seemed a youngish man."
"Yes. Been on a visit to Mr. Felix, most likely."
"Or to some other lodger in the house," suggested Constable Wigg.
"There ain't no other," said Constable Nightingale. "Every room in it
except the basement is let to Mr. Felix."
"A married man, then' with a large family?"
"No," said Constable Nightingale, with a little cough. "Single. Or,
perhaps, a widower. No business of ours, Wigg."
"Certainly not. Go on with your story, Nightingale. 'You're wanted up
there' says Mrs. Middlemore."
"Yes. 'You're wanted up there,' she says, meaning Mr. Felix's rooms.
'Did Mr. Felix send for me?' I ask. 'He did,' she answers. 'He rings
his bell and says, "Go for a policeman." And he'll not be sorry it's
you, Mr. Nightingale, because you're a man as can be trusted,' Mrs.
Middlemore's precise words. You see, Wigg, me and her ain't exactly
strangers. I'm a single man, and I'm mistook if she ain't got a bit of
money put by."
"You're a knowing one, Nightingale,' said Constable Wigg, somewhat
enviously, and it is not to the credit of human nature to state that
there flashed into his mind the base idea of endeavoring to supplant
his brother constable in Mrs. Middlemore's good graces. What should
hinder him? He was a single man, many years younger than Constable
Nightingale, and much better looking. All was fair in love and war.
The "bit of money put by" was a temptation from Lucifer.
"That's what brings me round here now and then," continued Constable
Nightingale, complacently. "A man might go a good deal further than
Mrs. Middlemore, and fare a good deal worse. 'I suppose,' says I to
her, 'there's somebody with Mr. Felix as he wants to get rid of, and
as won't go?' 'I ain't at liberty to say,' she answers, 'but you're
pretty near the mark. Come and see for yourself, and don't forget that
Mr. Felix has got a liberal heart, and hates fuss.' Upon that, Wigg, I
holds my tongue, because I'm a man as knows how to, and I follows Mrs.
Middlemore into the house. I'd been inside before, of course, but
never upstairs, always down and Mrs. Middlemore had told me such a lot
about Mr. Felix's rooms that I was curious to see them. 'Furnished
like a palace,' Mrs. Middlemore used to say; so up the stairs I steps,
Mrs. Middlemore showing the way, and I don't mind confessing that
before we got to the first landing I put my arm round Mrs.
Middlemore's waist--but that's neither here nor there. She stops on
the landing, and knocks at the door----"
But here Constable Nightingale was compelled to pause, and to hold on
tight to his comrade. The storm quite suddenly reached such a pitch of
fury that the men could scarcely keep their feet, and it would have
been impossible to hear a word that was spoken. It was not a fitful
display of temper; so fierce grew the wind that it blew the street
door open with a crash, and as the policemen were leaning against it,
the consequence was that they were precipitated into the passage, and
fell flat upon their backs. The reason of the door being blown open so
readily was probably, as Constable Nightingale afterward remarked,
because the man who had recently left the house so hastily had not
pulled it tight behind him, but the tempest was raging so furiously
that it might well have made light of such an obstacle as an old
street door. It was with difficulty the policemen recovered their
feet, and the strength of the wind as it rushed through the passage
was so great that the idea that they would be safer inside the house
than out occurred to both of them at once. To expose themselves to the
fury of the elements in the open would undoubtedly have been attended
with danger. Instinctively they advanced to the door, and after a
struggle succeeded in shutting it. That being accomplished, they stood
in the dark passage, mentally debating what they should do next.
"There's something moving," whispered Constable Wigg, trembling. He
was not remarkable for courage, and had a horror of darkness.
Constable Nightingale was made of sterner stuff. He promptly pulled
out his dark lantern, and cast its circle of light upon the floor; and
there, creeping timidly along close to the wall, they saw the
miserable half-starved cat which had shaken Constable Wigg's nerves
earlier in the night. It had taken advantage of the open street door
to obtain the shelter for which it had long been seeking.
"It ain't the first time," said Constable Wigg, in a vicious tone,
"that this little beast has given me a turn. Just before you come up
it run across me and almost sent my heart into my mouth."
But for a mournful, fear-stricken look in its yellow eyes, the light
of the dark lantern seemed to deprive the wretched cat of the power of
motion. It remained perfectly still, cowering to the ground. Even when
Constable Wigg gave it a spiteful kick it did not move of its own
volition, and it was only when the attention of the policeman was no
longer directed toward it that it slunk slowly and stealthily away.
Meanwhile the tempest raged more furiously than ever outside. The
shrieking wind tore through the streets, carrying devastation in its
train, and the air was thick with whirling, blinding snow.
"Did you ever hear anything like it?" said Constable Nightingale.
"Never," said Constable Wigg.
"It would be madness to go out," said Constable Nightingale. "We
should be dashed to pieces. Besides, what good could we do? Besides,
who would be likely to want us? Besides, who's to know?"
* * * * * *
There was a world of philosophy in these reflections, which Constable
Wigg was only too ready to acknowledge.
"What do you propose, Nightingale?" he asked.
"That we go down to Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen," replied Constable
Nightingale, "and make ourselves comfortable. I know the way."
He led it, and Constable Wigg very cheerfully accompanied him. The
kitchen was the coziest of apartments, and their hearts warmed within
them as they entered it. Mrs. Middlemore, like a sensible woman, had
taken the precaution to bank up the fire before she left the house,
and it needed but one touch from the poker to cause it to spring into
a bright glowing blaze. This touch was applied by Constable
Nightingale, and the shadows upon walls and ceiling leapt into ruddy
life.
"This is something like," said Constable Wigg, stooping and warming
himself.
Having no further need for his dark lantern, Constable Nightingale
tucked it snugly away, and then proceeded to light a candle which, in
its flat tin candlestick and a box of matches handy, stood on the
kitchen table. They were not the only articles on the table. There was
no table-cloth, it is true, but what mattered that? The whitest of
table-cloths would have made but a sorry supper, and in the present
instance could not have added to the attractions which the lighted
candle revealed. There was bread, there was butter, there was cheese,
there were pickles, there was a plate of sausages, there was half a
roast fowl, and there was a fine piece of cold pork. Constable Wigg's
eyes wandered to the table, and became, so to speak, glued there. He
was now standing with his back to the fire, and was being comfortably
warmed through. Even a kitchen may become a veritable Aladdin's cave,
and this was the case with Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen, in the
estimation of Constable Wigg.
"If there's one thing I like better than another for supper," he said,
meditatively, and with pathos in his voice, "it is cold pork and
pickles. And there's enough for three, Nightingale, there's enough for
three."
Constable Nightingale nodded genially, and, with the air of a man
familiar with his surroundings, took up a piece of butter on a knife,
and put it to his mouth.
"The best fresh," he observed.
"You don't say so?" exclaimed Constable Wigg, not contentiously, but
in amiable wonder.
"Taste it," said Constable Nightingale, handing his comrade the knife
with a new knob of butter on it.
"It _is_ the best fresh," said Constable Wigg. "She lives on the fat
of the land." This evidence of good living and the cheerful homeliness
of the kitchen strengthened his notion of supplanting Constable
Nightingale in the affections of Mrs. Middlemore, but he was careful
not to betray himself. "You know your way about, Nightingale. It ain't
the first time you've been in this here snuggery."
Constable Nightingale smiled knowingly, and said, "Cold pork and
pickles ain't half a bad supper, to say nothing of sausages, roast
fowl, and----and----." He sniffed intelligently and inquired, "Ain't
there a baked tatery smell somewheres near?"
"Now you mention it," replied Constable Wigg, also sniffing, "I
believe there is."
"And here they are, Wigg," said Constable Nightingale, opening the
door of the oven, and exposing four large, flowery potatoes baking in
their skins. "Not yet quite done, not yet quite ready to burst, and
all a-growing and a-blowing, and waiting for butter and pepper.
They're relishy enough without butter and pepper, but with butter and
pepper they're a feast for a emperor."
"Ah," sighed Constable Wigg, "it's better to be born lucky than rich.
Now just cast your eye at the door, Nightingale. I'm blessed if that
beastly cat ain't poking its nose in again." And as though there was
within him a superabundance of vicious energy which required immediate
working off, Constable Wigg threw his truncheon at the cat, which,
without uttering a sound, fled from the kitchen. "What riles me about
that cat is that it moves about like a ghost, without as much as a
whine. It takes you all of a sudden, like a stab in the back. It'll be
up to some mischief before the night is out."
"Why, Wigg," said Constable Nightingale, with a laugh, "you talk of it
as if it wasn't a cat at all."
"I don't believe it is. In my opinion it's a spectre cat, a spirit
without a solid body. I lifted it with my foot in the street, and not
a sound came from it. I kicked it in the passage, and it crept away
like a ghost. I let fly my truncheon at it and hit it on the head, and
off it went like a shadder, without a whine. It ain't natural. If it
comes across me again I advise it to say its prayers."
Which, to say the least of it, was an absurd recommendation to offer
to a cat. But Constable Wigg was in an unreasonable and spiteful
temper, and he became morose and melancholy when he saw how thoroughly
Constable Nightingale was making himself at home in Mrs. Middlemore's
kitchen; or perhaps it was the sight of the tempting food on the table
which, without lawful invitation, he dared not touch. However it was,
he was not allowed much time for gloomy reflection, his thoughts being
diverted by the violent slamming of the street door, and by the
further sound of a person breathing heavily in her course downstairs.
"It's Mrs. Middlemore," said Constable Nightingale, in a low tone. "I
never thought she'd be able to open the door alone with such a wind
blowing. We'll give her a surprise."
They heard Mrs. Middlemore stop outside the kitchen, and exclaim,
"Well! To think I should 'ave been so foolish as to leave the candle
alight! I could 'ave swore I blowed it out before I left the room!"
Then she opened the door, and it was well that Constable Nightingale
darted forward to her support, for if he had not she would have fallen
to the ground in affright, and the supper beer would have been lost to
taste, if not to sight. It was as well, too, that he put his face
close enough to her lips to partially stifle a kind of a hysterical
gurgle which was escaping therefrom. It was, however, a proceeding of
which Constable Wigg did not inwardly approve.
"Pluck up, Mrs. Middlemore," said Constable Nightingale, cheerily,
"there's nothing wrong. It's only me and my mate, Wigg, who's on night
duty here. Everything's as right as a fiddle. Take a pull at the
beer--a long pull. Now you feel better, don't you?"
Mrs. Middlemore--her movements being enviously watched by Constable
Wigg, whose thirst was growing almost unbearable--removed her lips
from the jug, and said:
"Ever so much. But how did you get in?"
"Didn't get in at all," said Constable Nightingale, jocosely; "we were
blown in."
"Blown in!"
"Yes, my dear. We was standing outside, Wigg and me, leaning against
the door, when the wind come like a clap of thunder, and blew it clean
open, and of course we went with it, flat on our backs the pair of us.
When we got on our feet again the wind was tearing so, and the snow
was pelting down that fierce, that I thought we might venture to take
a liberty, and we come down here to warm ourselves. And that's the
long and the short of it, my dear."
He still had his arm round Mrs. Middlemore's waist, and now he gave
her a hug. She was a pleasant-faced, round-bodied woman, some forty
years of age, and she looked up smilingly as the constable--her
favorite constable--hugged her, and said,
"Well, now, I declare you did startle me. When I opened the door, and
sor two men a-standing in my kitchen, I thought of burglars, and you
might 'ave knocked me down with a feather.
"And now we're here," said Constable Nightingale, "I don't suppose
you'd have the heart to turn us out."
"Turn you out!" exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore, "I wouldn't turn a cat out
on such a night as this!"
"More cats," thought Constable Wigg, with his eyes on the cold pork
and pickles.