THE CAT MAN AND THE JUDGE’S FAMILY
Late one afternoon Barry Mafferty, the cat man, left the island out in
the river where he kept his handsome cats for sale, and quickly rowed
himself toward the city.
The winter was passing away, the spring was coming. There was a feeling
in the air. Barry could not describe it, as fluent as he was in the use
of words.
The feeling was not a warm feeling, for the air was still chilly.
Perhaps it was not a feeling, but a look—a look as of a departing,
reluctant season. Barry did not know.
“Anyhow,” he murmured to himself, “the cold days are going, the warm
ones are coming. Something tells me, something turns my thoughts to
green grass and running water, to gardens and flowers—it is faith.”
He looked over his shoulder toward the city. “Just a good size,” he
murmured, “not small enough to be stupid, and not large enough to be
oppressive. Looks well this evening, too—enveloped in that red, smoky
haze.”
In a short time he was abreast of the fish market. The old caretaker
there always took charge of his boat when he came to the city.
Barry sprang on the slimy stone steps leading up to the wharf, tied his
boat up, looked irritably over his shoulder at the deaf old caretaker,
who was shouting his name and a greeting to him, then went quickly up to
the little cabin near the big fish market.
It was not quite dark yet; he would not go up to the city until it was.
The present caretaker and ex-fisherman followed him into the cabin.
“What’s your hurry? You spun by me like a flying fish.”
“I want to sit down; I’m tired,” said Barry, flinging his cap on the
table.
“Did ye row standin’?” roared the old man.
“No, I didn’t,” observed Barry, mildly.
“What’s the news on the island?” inquired the old fisherman, sitting
down before his guest.
“What kind of news would I be likely to have but cat news?” inquired
Barry, sarcastically.
“Well, give us your cat news. I see the Mayor’s steam launch goin’ out
to yer island yesterday. Was he wantin’ cats fer his lady?”
“Yes, he did buy one,” said Mafferty.
“Hey?”
“He bought one—or, rather, he sent his man for one—a white Angora with
blue eyes.”
“An’ how much would ye get fer such a beast?”
“Twenty dollars.”
“Twenty dollars!” echoed the caretaker, in disgust, “an’ I drowns ’em by
the bagful.”
“You don’t drown Angoras.”
“Who said I did? I drowns common cats, gray cats, tabby cats, yellow
cats, an’ all kinds of cats.”
“How much do you get for it?”
“Ten cents apiece.”
“Do you drown them here?” asked Barry.
“Yes; do you s’pose I’d navigate ’em out to the Atlantic?”
“And the lobster pens are close by,” observed Barry; “disgusting!”
The old man shrugged his shoulders.
“You’ll soon have that source of income cut off,” continued Barry.
“What’ll be cut off?”
“Your cat money. Law! how deaf the old creature is! The city is goin to
have a gas box.”
“An’ what kind of a union is there between the city, an’ gas, an’ cats?”
inquired the old man, in quiet exasperation.
“Union and disunion. In future anyone having a cat to destroy can take
it to the City Hall. They’ve given a big room to the S. P. C. You
deliver your sick cat, or your old cat, or your superfluous cat, and a
man puts her in a big box with a juicy piece of meat. The gas is turned
on, pussy eats her meat, gets sleepy, lies down, and dies.”
The old fisherman pounded the table with his fist. “An’ who’s at the
bottom of that hugger-mugger business?”
“Mrs. Tom Everest.”
“I might ’a’ known it—I might ’a’ guessed. Takin’ the bread out of the
mouth of an honest man.”
“How about the demoralizing effect on children, of screaming cats
dragged through the city in bags?”
“Screaming fish tails! It don’t hurt ’em.”
“How would you like to be the cat?” asked Barry, slyly.
“She’s always interferin’,” said the old man, passionately; “she’s
always stickin’ her little nose into every man’s business.”
“Who runs to help me when I’m ill?” inquired Barry, mischievously.
The old man showed his teeth at him.
“Who always pays my doctor’s bill?” pursued Barry, in his clear voice.
“I’ve jined a benevolent society,” shouted the old man; “she aint
a-goin’ to coddle me any more.”
“What about your grandchild?” said Barry. “What about that imp Cracker
that no one else can manage?”
The old man’s head sank, and he looked thoughtful.
“How many times has she saved him from the police court? Old Cracker,
you are an ungrateful wretch. Come now, aint you?”
The poor old fellow’s head sank lower. His young grandchild was all he
had in the world. “I believe I be,” he said, slowly. “I believe I be.”
Barry looked out the window. “’Most dark; I can be going. Seen any
strangers about, Cracker, senior?” he asked, as he turned his coat
collar well up about his ears and pulled his cap down over his eyes.
“No, no—no strangers, only fish,” replied the caretaker; “only fish,
fish, fish,” and Barry left him mumbling to himself.
With a quick, alert step the dark-featured, middle-aged man left River
Street, went up one of the slightly ascending side streets that led to
Broadway, quickly crossed the brilliantly lighted and crowded
thoroughfare, and struck into a succession of quiet streets that finally
led him to Grand Avenue.
Little by little the appearance of the houses had improved, until here
on Grand Avenue he found himself among mansions.
Arrived near Judge Sancroft’s house, he walked more slowly, then
suddenly he turned, and retracing his steps walked up the driveway
leading to the stable.
His keen eyes scrutinized every window of the house. Here and there one
was open. “They all like fresh air,” he murmured. Under one open window
he paused. He could hear the sound of voices. Dallas was speaking—Dallas
the clever English boy that the Judge had adopted—and he was scolding
Bethany, dear little Bethany.
Barry’s face softened. He was very much attached to that child. Ever
since he had known her she had been sweet and gentle with him—first at
Mrs. Tingsby’s, and now when he occasionally saw her with the Judge.
Dear little Bethany—the only little girl he knew in Riverport that he
cared much about, except poor Airy, and his face softened still further.
What was Dallas worrying her about?
They seemed to be standing by one of the open parlor windows. “Bethany,”
Dallas was saying, severely, “I have brought you in here to scold you. I
think you are a selfish little girl.”
“I don’t feel selfish,” remarked Bethany, whimperingly.
“Well, you act so. I consider you the most selfish person in this
household. Everyone in the family has got into the way of pleasing you
from morning till night, and it is having a bad effect on you. I
consider that you treated Airy very shabbily this afternoon.”
“I didn’t do anything,” said Bethany, resentfully.
“That is just it—you didn’t do anything. Now, you know as well as I do
that for weeks I have been teaching Airy, and that she has improved
immensely—just immensely. She called this afternoon, and naturally I was
anxious to show her off to the Judge. I took pains to have her meet you
when you came from school, and what did you do?”
“You didn’t tell me what to do?” said Bethany, irritably.
“Didn’t tell you? Of course not. I hoped that your own kind heart would
tell you. You saw that Airy was dying to play with you. Why didn’t you
invite her to stay?”
Bethany burst out with an intense remark, “I don’t like Airy.”
“Neither do I, but is that an excuse? Suppose I stopped teaching her
because I did not like her?”
“I’m going to tell Daddy Grandpa how you are scolding me,” remarked
Bethany, plaintively.
“I am delighted to hear it. His calm, judicial mind will decide between
us. I just wanted him to know, but I wouldn’t go to him, because I hate
to carry tales. And now you may go, Miss Selfishness. My interview with
you is over.”
Barry, under the window, laughed to himself, then listened as he heard
the Judge’s kind voice: “Children, what are you sparring about here in
this lonely room?”
“O, Daddy Grandpa,” exclaimed Bethany—and Barry could imagine her
running to throw herself into the arms of her adopted grandfather, “am I
a selfish creature?”
The Judge’s clear tones floated out the window, “Certainly—we all are.”
“But Dallas says I am just un—un—it begins with ‘un’ and ends with
‘able.’”
“So we all are,” said the Judge; “so we all are.”
“But he says I’ve been very hateful to Airy, Daddy Grandpa.”
“So have we all been,” said the Judge, cheerily, “so have we all been.
She is longing to come here. She meets me in the street, and she throws
out hints. Dallas, invite your pupil to visit us any hour of any day, or
to any meal. She does you credit.”
Barry could hear the boy’s deeply gratified “Thank you, sir,” then the
voices were hushed for him, for the Judge said, “Please close that
window, my boy. Bethany’s frock is thin.”
With a smile Barry went on his way to the stable. The lights were out
here, everything was quiet, but he saw a glimmer from Brick’s room.
“Hello!” he called, and he threw a handful of gravel against the window.
“Brick, ahoy!”
Brick ran up the blind, opened the window, and thrust out a cautious
head.
“Dat you, Mistah Mafferty?”
“Yes, Brick; come down and let me in.”
The colored boy ran nimbly down the stairs, pressed a button, and
lighting up the lower part of the stable ushered his friend in.
“Come up to your room,” said Barry, commandingly, and he strode ahead of
the lad. Brick, grinning from ear to ear at the honor conferred upon
him—for this was the second time that Barry had visited him within a
week—followed close at his heels.
When they got into his snug little bedroom Barry sat down and looked
about him. Brick was in the act of changing his clothes.
“What are you dressing up for, this time of night?” inquired Barry,
suspiciously. “You ought to be going to bed.”
“I aint dressin’ up; I’se dressing down,” giggled Brick. “I’se goin’ fo’
a walk, mistah, an’ I didn’ want fo’ to soil my buttins,” and he glanced
lovingly at the bespangled garment of the bed.
“Where are you going?”
“Down to River Street. I’se pinin’ to see my ole friens. Me an’ Bylow’s
not been down fo’ about a thousan’ meal times,” and he gave a push with
his foot toward the plump sleeping dog.
“He don’t want to go,” observed Barry, dryly.
“I guess you’re right, mistah. I guess Bylow be jus’ as much glorified
to stay to hum, but, bless you, Brick don’ care,” and he thrust his arms
into a shabby coat that he took from a hook on the wall.
“How many coats have you without buttons?” asked Barry, curiously.
“Dere’s dis fellow,” said Brick, laying his hand on his chest, “an’ dat
fellow,” and he brought one from the closet, “an’ de odder fellow,” and
he pointed to one that Bylow lay on.
“Let’s see them all lying on the bed together,” said Barry, in an
infantile way.
Brick laughed in silly glee. It was delightful to see this fine
gentleman—for such the cat man was to him—taking such an interest in his
wardrobe. He stripped off the coat he had on, brought another from the
closet, pulled the one out from under the protesting Bylow, and laid
them on the bed.
“And how many coats have you with buttons?” asked Barry.
“Only two, mistah; de fust best an’ de second best.”
Barry calmly rolled the three buttonless coats together and put them
under his arm.
“Were you going to River Street to see anyone in particular?”
“No, mistah—jes’ thought I’d sauntah roun’. Mebbe call on Mis’ Tingsby;
but, law me, dis niggah furgits. She aint dah. She’s moved to de lubley
green country.”
“Brick,” said Barry, seriously, “you are happy here?”
Brick made a face.
“O, excuse me,” continued Barry, “I forgot. Of course you are not happy.
You long for the old free life—for dirt and rags, and an empty stomach,
for kicks instead of thanks.”
Brick hung his head. He had sense enough to know when he was being
laughed at.
“Sure enough, mistah,” he said, “de meals dey didn’t come reglah in dose
days. Dey played chase.”
“And the dirty, low people. How you must have enjoyed living with them.
And the tramp, your master—what a sweet creature!”
“He used to wallop Brick awful,” and the boy ruefully rubbed his
shoulder. “I’se glad I runned away from him.”
“Now, look here, Brick,” said Barry, roughly, “I think you are a fool.
You’ve got a snug berth here. Just as sure as you go monkeying round
River Street you’ll lose it. What did I tell you two days ago?”
“You tole me to stay in de house at night and let de dog loose in de
yahd, and not to take up wid strangers.”
“And you’re doing all that, aren’t you?” said Barry, sarcastically.
Brick stared earnestly at him for a few seconds, then he said, “Mistah,
dere aint one thing Brick cries fo’, but one.”
“And what is that, you goose?”
“He can’t do what he likes,” said the boy, seriously. “Now, Brick, he
always likes his own way. An’ his own way aint Roblee way, nor Jedge
way, nor Mastah Titus way, nor Mistah Mafferty way.”
“You idiot! Who does get his own way in the world?”
“De tramp,” said Brick, solemnly, “he do.”
“Does he?” said Barry, “does he? Who is the tramp always afraid of?”
“He aint afraid of no one but hissef.”
“He is. Think now. Search that crack-brained memory of yours.”
“Do you mean the p’lice?” asked Brick, and from his slightly open mouth
Barry caught a gleam of pink gums and white ivory.
“Of course I do. He’s mortally afraid of him.”
“Dat’s true, dat’s true,” and Brick burst into a guffaw of laughter. “De
p’liceman comes, de tramp runs, if he aint squared him, an’ it takes
lots of cash to square de whole p’lice of dis here country.”
“Don’t you leave this place,” said Barry, warningly.
“Mistah,” said the boy, and his grin vanished, “dere’s two Bricks. One
Brick he say, ‘Boy, don’ you get out o’ smell o’ dose fleshpots in de
Jedge’s kitchen.’ De odder Brick he say, ‘Run, boy, run—dere’s fun in de
city—run, boy, run.’”
“It’s the button boy that says stay, isn’t it?” inquired Barry, with a
glance at Brick’s official garments on the bed.
“Yes, sah; dose buttons is anchors. Brick can’t run wid dem. Dey is
ruspectability.”
“Then you’ll have to stay,” said Barry, getting up and moving toward the
door, “for I’m going to carry off your plain clothes.”
Brick followed him anxiously. “Mistah, you don’ lay out fo’ to take away
po’ Brick’s wardrobe?”
“Yes, I do lay out for to do that very thing, and if you say a word to
anyone about it I’ll give you such a walloping that you won’t be able to
stand up for a week.”
“An’ Brick can’t go anywhere widout dem buttins,” said the boy, sadly
looking at his glistening coat on the bed. “Ef he ’pears in River Street
dey’ll say, ‘Heah comes de Jedge’s boy.’”
“If you appear in River Street in that coat,” said Barry, firmly, “I’ll
tell you what will happen. I’m going to see Git McGlory to-night. You
know Git?”
“Know his fisties,” said Brick, meekly. “De’re like little potato
barrels.”
“Well, I’m going to tell Git that I’m interested in a certain colored
boy called Brick that he knows well. I’m going to say, ‘Git, if you see
that boy on River Street just you shake your fists at him, and send him
home. He’s got a good home, and I don’t mean he shall leave it.’”
Brick shuddered. “Mistah, aint I evah goin’ to git my cloes back?”
“Yes, if you behave yourself; but mind, I’m watching you. If you cut one
button off your coats, or if you go in one place where you’d be ashamed
to have the Judge see you, I’ll be on your track. Mind that now,” and
with a determined shake of his head he opened the door to go out.
“By the way,” he said, sticking his head inside the room again, “have
you seen anything more of that stranger who came here the other evening
inquiring for the Brown’s coachman?”
“No,” said the boy, seriously, “I aint.”
“Would you know him if you saw him in broad daylight?”
“No, sah.”
“Well, don’t you have anything to do with him,” said Barry, somewhat
unreasonably, and he went away.
Left alone, Brick stood quietly in the middle of the floor for a few
minutes. Then he began to shudder, at first in pretense, then in
reality. Then he said a number of charms. Not all the churchgoing and
Sunday school teaching that he had had could shake his faith in them.
Finally he jumped into bed with all his clothes on, and repeating,
“Snake hiss, and toad turn, water bless me ere I burn!” he called Bylow
the dog to lie closer under the bed, then drawing the blanket over his
head shiveringly tried to go to sleep.