At last “Madness” has succeeded in coming to grips with the young
fox....
They do battle on a grassy field, bounded on one side by yellow straw
and on the other by dried-up, rust-coloured clover.
Black crouches on three legs, swaying his doubled-up body, and prepares
to give Reynard a sample of his patent attack, when suddenly the earth
shakes with the beat of a horse’s hoof.
The beats come nearer ... and become quicker and quicker.
The two madcaps call a truce and listen....
The hoof-beats are coming straight towards them--and now they can see
the head of a horse with its rider.
The young fox slips instantly into the nearest ditch--its instinct is
sure--but Black, who feels bound to find a wood or tree, tears off
along the path. With tail on one side he chases along, easily visible
among the withered grass.
The horseman is an artilleryman from an adjacent garrison town, a young
sergeant out exercising his colonel’s horse. The poor beast was so
seldom allowed to let himself go--here was a splendid chance....
The speed of the cat, as it gallops along the path, infects the man; he
digs his spurs deep in Tambourine’s sides, and away they go as hard as
the horse can pelt.
Black puts his ears back and makes springs fully three times his own
length. He feels like a hare in front of an express train. His eyes
are magnetized to the smooth, open path before him; he cannot, if
he would, leave it to plunge aside into the corn. A tree he _must_
have--and trees are not found until the hedge is reached; already he
can see one; his claws itch to bury themselves in its bark!
Suddenly he rolls over and over! His brain, which keeps running on
trees, has just time to complete the thought, “Now, you’ve fallen
down!” when a kick on the head knocks him senseless. He remains lying
in the path, his whiskers twitching, his legs kicking spasmodically....
Tambourine, who has joyfully given every muscle full play during his
reckless gallop, jumps clean over his victim, causing the supple rider
to fling himself backwards in the saddle. The man catches a glimpse of
what has happened, pulls up, turns, and dismounts.
“What a shame! Poor little beast!”
He picks up the cat by its tail between his forefinger and thumb, and
turns its body round. It bleeds neither at the nose nor at the mouth,
but it does not move a hair. The sergeant feels it to see whether any
bones are broken, then holds it by the scruff and examines its yellow
eyes. Yes, it must be dead, after all--probably from a hoof-kick....
Well, to blazes with the beast!
He is just about to fling it in the ditch when the cat’s smooth,
jet-black coat catches his attention!
“By Jove, what a splendid skin! That’s sure to be useful!” And without
further ado he opens the left saddle-bag and lets the lifeless
“Madness” sink to the bottom.
The old saddle-bag is worn thin, and the inside seam nearest the horse
is gaping; but what does it matter--a cat, and what’s more, a dead cat,
is safe enough there!
And the man pulls the strap extra tight.
Tambourine has been ordered a good run this morning, so that he shall
go quietly at the next morning’s general inspection--and when at last,
sweating and frothing with dilated nostrils, he is walking homewards
towards the barracks, the reins hang loose on his neck.
Suddenly he feels some pointed “spurs” prod him in the side....
The skittish thoroughbred, who shies at a mere touch of the curb, now
receives one “spur” jab after another! He gives a leap, and bucks
sideways like a flash of lightning, and the sergeant, who is totally
unprepared, reels out of the saddle.
“Madness” has recovered consciousness, and, true to his nature, pays
back the horse in his own coin. His disturbed state of mind, rendered
still more frantic by the darkness of the saddle-bag, finds the
necessary outlet in his claws and teeth.
Meanwhile, Tambourine, riderless and with flapping reins, gallops
away to the barracks, where he is captured. He had probably bolted
from the sergeant, they thought, while that worthy was swallowing a
“corpse-reviver” at an inn!
“Give him a good rub down and afterwards let him have some water!”
comes a roar from the office where the “Staff” sits and administers. He
has heard the horse thundering round for some time, and now sticks his
fat, bald head through the door....
The long-aproned stable orderly bangs his heels together with a “Very
good, sir!” gives the hunter a couple of soothing pats on the flanks,
and leads him away.
But the orderly nearly had a fit when, unsaddling the horse, he saw a
coal-black cat flash out of one of the saddle-bags and leap towards
him; he thought it was the evil one himself....
With a furious hiss “Madness” sprang over the man’s shoulder, ran along
the side of the manger, and leapt out in the middle of the stable....
He was in a terribly battered state, and felt utterly confused by his
new surroundings. The fall from the tree, which was the beginning of
his misfortunes, seemed to have spirited him into another world. He hid
himself in a corner under some hay, and spat out venomous oaths at all
who approached.
* * * * *
When the sergeant returned home he came very near smashing in
“Madness’” head with his sword--not unnaturally his feelings towards
the cat were the reverse of friendly! But the battery commander, who
came in at the moment and heard the story, regarded the black devil as
sent from heaven.
Weren’t the old barrack stables simply swarming with rats and mice? It
would be a splendid thing to have a cat which was worth its salt!
The tall, bony battery commander stood looking down searchingly at the
savage, coal-black beast as it crouched glaring at him with its wicked,
yellow-green eyes.... Suddenly with a ferocious scowl he thrust his
long, heavy riding-boot right in the cat’s face.
But neither the scowl nor the boot frightened Black: a claw transfixed
the patent leather, while sharp fangs bit into the uppers....
“Damn it, if he isn’t a soldier!” exclaimed the commander--and the
cat’s fortune was made.
* * * * *
Living among these strong, healthy men Black performed prodigies of
valour....
He wasn’t satisfied with catching one rat at a time--but usually
managed one with each claw-bunch. Indeed, occasionally when someone
took the trouble to shift the oat-bin for him, he had been know to
secure a third with his jaws. He became less wild after a time, and
would even allow himself to be stroked and picked up--and here, where
the idea of madness was unknown, he was christened anew: they called
him “Fizz.”
“TERROR” TURNS HOUSE-CAT
At the cross-roads some way from the village lived the midwife.
She was a slim, fair person, with large eyes and thick, curly hair.
She was not so fearfully old; but neither was she so fearfully young;
in short, she was a lady in the prime of life.
She had never taken a husband to herself, although there had been
plenty of suitors--the snug little home and the smart, pretty girl were
tempting enough for anyone.
Why she had not married was the secret of her life; and everyone in the
neighbourhood had tried to guess it!
* * * * *
One evening in late autumn, when storm and rain raged without, there
came to her a little kitten in the last stages of exhaustion, which
crept into the shelter of the outhouse and next morning introduced
itself to her as a new arrival into the world.
It was extremely timid, but starving and hungry--it gulped down
everything she placed before it.
She saw that it was a little spotted he-cat with almost as many colours
as the rainbow, and with a tail so long that it could wind it round the
neck like a feather-boa.
The midwife adopted “Terror,” not because she was particularly fond of
cats, but because of late she had begun to feel so terribly lonely....
* * * * *
After Black’s departure from home Tiny had a very rough time. He was
soon pursued by hunger, and there was no one there to help him, for
his other brothers and sisters had also left. Even Grey Puss, who
occasionally let him share her spoil, had vanished without trace.
One day, just as he is sneaking through the doorway of the
turf-house--under whose mouldering thatch he still remains--he finds
himself suddenly face to face with a tall, two-legged being who is too
big for him to see all at once. The man throws his coat over him and he
disappears as into the blackest night. He is squeezed and stifled, and
meanwhile carried along--until at last he succeeds in diving head first
through a long, dangling nozzle--a coat-sleeve.
Then he ran, and ran--and never knew what fate he escaped!
He hid in a turnip-field, where for a time he dragged out a wretched,
half-starved existence. His lonely expeditions in company with Black
had taught him to avoid the dwellings of mankind; and it was not until
hunger conquered fear that he dared to enter the cottage.
His position as midwife’s cat suited “Terror” down to the ground--his
complete inability to earn his own living excused him from rendering
his mistress the slightest assistance!
Later on, the midwife discovered that she had a living barometer in the
house--a fact which raised his value in her eyes enormously! She always
consulted him before setting out on her duties.
As regards his humorous tendencies, they too came into their own--but
not before a very painful accident occurred.
One day when the wind was playing with the outhouse door, “Terror”
suddenly felt the door bite his tail! He whirled round immediately and
let fly with his claws--that helped matters. The door opened its mouth
and he was free!
But in spite of that, the tail still felt as if it were held fast; he
ran round and round with a pain all over his body--and later on a red,
swollen ring appeared round the appendage.
At last the tail-end withered away and fell off; and where the red ring
had been, a tuft of hair sprouted over a black spot.
Tiny-kitten had become still tinier!
But his luxurious mode of living made his stomach fat and his body
broad and short--which, taken in conjunction with his extra hairy ears
and his stumpy tail, gave him a strong resemblance to a young lynx. The
good midwife’s clients, who not infrequently suffered from the most
frightful delusions, often mistook him for one in their excited state
of mind....
Many an idle evening in the cottage by the cross-road did the still
pretty spinster sit in cosy companionship with the kitten, thinking
over her life’s secret. Should she have married Thorkild Skov after
all--he was now a well-to-do butcher? Or Frederik Hansen--he was now
owner of Hill Farm? Or ... ah, she had had so many wooers once upon a
time!
No, no, she thought, jumping up restlessly--far better off as she was!
All that terrible fuss over the arrival of each little citizen into the
world, with which she had been in such close contact since her early
girlhood, had quite frightened her.
She sat down again and fell into deep thought, her hand gently stroking
“Terror’s” soft fur, as he lay purring on the sofa at her side....
And yet--she sighed deeply--and yet, she wished in spite of all that
she had not been so afraid of _life_!