"Very," I said; "his early upbringing gave him a healthy body and a
mellow heart. He was born in a brewery, you know, and never tasted water
until I flung him into the canal the first day I had him. Since then, as
often as he has time, he goes to bathe in the scummiest parts, and then
comes and tells me all about it with any amount of circumstantial
evidence. Most enthusiastic little swimmer he is."
"What a funny dog! But I should never allow him to go out alone--if he
were mine, I mean. And what sort of food do you give him?"
"Well, he tried to swallow one of my white ties last night."
"Oh, but I should give him proper food," she said. "He doesn't hate
cats, does he? I couldn't bear a dog that did."
My eyes met Martell's for one moment, then I cleared my throat. Slowly
and sadly I opened the history of Peter militant, with unacknowledged
borrowings from the lives of other Peters with other names. Beginning
with cats I had seen in my garden looking as if they felt rather blurred
and indistinct, I passed on through cats speechless and perforated, to
cats that were. I told sad stories of the deaths of cats. I talked of
nights of agonising shrieks, and mornings of guilty eyes and
blood-stained lips. My store of reminiscences lasted five minutes, and
before Mrs. Martell had recovered from their recitation I pleaded a
pressing engagement and took my departure.
You will now understand why I count Martell among my friends and am at
this moment, as I said before, smoking one of his cigars. It came in a
box of a hundred, with the laconic note, "One for each."
As I write, my dog and my black kitten are barging in perfect accord all
round my legs in pursuit of a brand-new collar with "Peter" printed in
big letters.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A NEW CRAZE.
"WHAT A TRAGIC FACE YOU HAVE, MISS POOTLE."
"YES, YOU SEE, I _ADORE_ MISERY."]
* * * * *