WILLIAM AND THE BLACK CAT
BUNKER, the old black cat, had been an inhabitant of William’s home ever since he could remember. Bunker officially belonged to Ethel, William’s sister, but he bestowed his presence impartially on every family in the neighbourhood. He frequently haunted the next door garden, where lived another black cat, a petted darling named Luke, belonging to Miss Amelia Blake.
William treated all cats with supreme contempt. Towards his own family’s cat he unbent occasionally so far as to throw twigs at it or experiment upon it with pots of coloured paints, but he prided himself upon despising cats, and considered that their only use in the world was to give exercise and pleasure to his beloved mongrel, Jumble.
When William lay in bed and Miss Amelia Blake’s tender accents rose nightly to his ears from the next garden, “Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Luk-ee-ee-ee!” he would frown scornfully.
“Huh! All for an ole cat! Fancy knowin’ ’em.”
His boast was that he did not know one cat from another.
Bunker was very old and very mangy. He employed habitually an ear-splitting and horrible yell, long drawn out and increasing in volume as it neared its nightmare climax—a yell which William loved to imitate.
“Yah-ah-ah-ah-ah-Ah-AH!”
Mr. Brown remarked many times that that cat and that boy would drive him to drink between them, but at least that boy slept at nights. It was decided one morning, when Bunker had spent a whole night in the garden without once relaxing the efforts of his vocal chords, that Bunker should leave this unsympathetic world for some sphere where, one hoped, his voice could be better appreciated, or, at any rate, submitted to some tuning process.
“Well, he goes, or I go,” said Mr. Brown. “One or other of us must be destroyed. The world can’t hold us both. You can take your choice.”
Thus Bunker’s fate was sealed.
Ethel, who had hardly looked at Bunker for months without disgust, began, now that his dissolution was imminent, to dwell upon his engaging kittenhood, to see him in her mind’s eye as a black ball with a blue ribbon around his neck, and to experience all the feelings that one ought to experience when one’s beloved pet is torn from one by Death. She would even have fondled him if he hadn’t been so mangy. When his hideous voice upraised itself she would murmur, “My darling Bunker.” And only a week ago she had murmured, “Why we keep that cat, I can’t think.”
One afternoon when Ethel was at the tennis club, Mrs. Brown approached William mysteriously.
“William, dear, I think it would be so kind of you to take Bunker to Gorton’s now while Ethel is out. I’ve told Mr. Gorton and he’s expecting him, and it would be much nicer for Ethel just to hear that it was all over.”
Nothing loth to help in Bunker’s destruction, William took the covered basket from the pantry and went into the garden, caught a glimpse of black fur beyond the summer-house, crept up behind it, grabbed it with a triumphant “Would you?” and clapped it into the basket.
*****
Gorton’s was a wonderland to William—dogs in cages, cats in cages, guinea-pigs in cages, rabbits in cages, white rats in cages, tortoises in cages, gold-fish in bowls.
Once William had been thrilled to see a monkey there. William had stood outside the shop for a whole morning watching it and making encouraging conciliatory noises to it which it answered by an occasional jabber that delighted William’s very soul. William was glad of an errand that gave him an excuse for wandering round the fascinations of the shop. He handed his basket to Mr. Gorton, and began his tour of inspection. He spent half an hour in front of the cage of a parrot, who screamed repeatedly, “Go—away, you ass, go away!”
William would never have tired of the joy of listening to this, but, discovering that it was almost tea-time, he reluctantly took up his empty basket and returned.
When he entered the dining-room, Mrs. Brown was speaking to Ethel.
“Ethel, darling, William very kindly took dear Bunker to Mr. Gorton’s this afternoon. We wanted you to be spared the pain of knowing till it was over, but now it’s over and Bunker didn’t suffer at all, you know, darling, and——”
At that moment there arose from the garden the familiar hair-raising, ear-splitting sound. “Yah-ah-ah-ah-AH.”
Ethel burst into tears.
“It’s Bunker’s ghost,” she said, “Oh, it’s his ghost.”
But it wasn’t Bunker’s ghost, for Bunker’s solid, earthly, mangy form appeared at that very moment upon the window-sill.
William’s heart stood still. In the sudden silence that greeted the apparition of the earthly body of Bunker, his mind grasped the important fact that he must have taken the wrong cat, and that the less he said about it the better.
“William,” said Mrs. Brown reproachfully, “you might have done a little thing like that for your sister.”
“I thought——” said William feebly, “I mean, I meant——”
“Well, you must do it after tea,” said Mrs. Brown firmly; “it isn’t kind of you to cause your sister all this unnecessary suffering just because you’re too lazy to walk down to Gorton’s.”
His sister, who was finding it difficult to whip up a loving sorrow for Bunker, while Bunker, mangy and alive, stared at her through the window, said nothing and William muttered: “All right—after tea—I’ll go after tea.”
He went after tea. He handed the basket to Mr. Gorton with an unblushing: “There was two really to be done—here’s the other.”
He stood oppressed by the thought of his crime, and waited the return of his basket. He had even lost interest in Mr. Gorton’s wonderland. When the parrot screamed, “Go away, you ass, go away,” he replied huffily, “Go away yourself.”
As he lay in bed that night, he wondered vaguely whose cat he had consigned to an untimely death.
“Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Luk-ee-ee-ee. Where are you, darling? Luky?—Luky? Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Lukee-ee-ee-ee? What’s happened to you, Luky? Where are you, darling? Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Luk-ee-ee-ee-ee.”
It seemed to William to go on all night.
*****
William’s excursions in the character of robber chief, outlaw, or Red Indian, took him many miles outside the radius of his own village. Three days after the day of his ill-omened mistake he was passing a wayside cottage (in the character of a famous detective on the track of crime), when he noticed a large black cat sitting upon the doorstep washing its face. There was something familiar about that cat. William stopped. It wasn’t Bunker, but was it——
“Luky,” said William in a hoarse persuasive whisper.
The large black cat rose purring and came down the walk to William.
“Luky,” said William again.
The large black cat rubbed itself fondly against William’s boots.
A woman came out of the cottage smiling.
“You admirin’ my pussy, little boy?”
In ordinary circumstances, William would have resented most bitterly this mode of address and would have passed on with a silent glance of contempt. But from William’s heart the load of murder had been lifted. He almost smiled.
“Umph!” he said.
“He is a nice pussy, isn’t he?” went on Luky’s new owner. “I bought him at Gorton’s, three days ago. He was just what I wanted—a nice full-grown cat. Kittens are so destructive. He’s called Twinkie. Twinkie, Twinkie, Twinkie,” she murmured fondly bending down to stroke him, her voice rising affectionately in the scale at each repetition of his name.
Luky rubbed himself purring against her boots.
“There!” she said proudly, “don’t the dear dumb creature know its new mistress.... There then, darling. You come in an’ see the beauty lap up its milk some time, little boy, and I’ll give you a gingerbread. I like little boys to be fond of animals—especially cats. Some nasty boys throw sticks and things at them, but I’m quite sure you wouldn’t, would you?”
William muttered something inaudible and set off down the road, his heart torn between relief at knowing himself guiltless of the crime of murder and indignant shame at being accused of an affection for cats—cats! But he was horrified at the duplicity of Mr. Gorton, and decided to confront him with it at once. He hastened to the cage-hung shop and, spending only ten minutes in front of the box of grass snakes, entered the cool, dark depths where Mr. Gorton, in his shirt sleeves, was chewing tobacco.
Mr. Gorton was a large, burly man with a fat, good-natured-looking face, and a gentle manner. But Mr. Gorton obeyed the Scriptures in combining with his dove-like gentleness a serpent-like cunning.
“Now look ’ere, young gent,” he said, when William had laid his accusation before him. “You say I sold that there hanimal. Now wot you wanted was to be rid of that hanimal, didn’t you? Well, you’re rid of it, haren’t you? So wot’ve you got to grumble at? See? ’As that there hanimal come back to trouble you? No. I’m as good a judge of a cat’s character, I am, as hanyone. I knowed that there cat soon’s I seed ’im. I says, ‘There’s a hanimal as will curl up anywheres you like ter put ’im an’ so long’s ’e’s got ’is cushion an’ ’is saucer o’ milk regular, ’e won’t ’anker after nuffin’ else. ’E won’t go no long torchurous road journeys tryin’ to find old ’omes. Not ’e. ’E’ll rub ’isself against hanyone wot’ll say ‘Puss, puss.’ ’Sides which it’s agin’ my feelings as a ’umane man to put to death a young an’ ’ealthy hanimal.”
William stared at him.
“Now the second one you brought, well, ’e was ripe fer death, all right, an’ it’s a pleasure an’ kindness to do it in those circs. ’Sides which,” Mr. Gorton went on as another argument occurred to him, “wot proof ’ave you that this ’ere hanimal of Miss Cliff’s is the same hanimal wot you brought to me Saturday? They’re both black cats—no marks on ’em. Well, there must be ’undreds of black cats same as that—thahsands—millions—just think of ’em—all hover the world. Well, jus’ you prove that these two hanimals is identical.”
William, having for once in his life met his match in eloquence, moved away despondently.
“All right,” he said, “I only asked.” He went to the parrot who was still there, and who greeted him with an ironical laugh and a cry of: “My word—what a nut! Oh, my word!”
William’s spirits rose.
“How much is the parrot?” he said.
“Five pounds,” said Mr. Gorton.
William’s spirits sank again.
“Snakes one and six—and—and, see here, I’ll give you a baby tortoise jus’ to stop you worrying about that hanimal.”
William walked home proudly carrying his baby tortoise in both hands.
Miss Amelia Blake was in the drawing-room. She was speaking tearfully to his mother. “And I leave his saucer of milk out every night and I call him every night, my poor Luky. I can hardly sleep with thinking of my darling, perhaps hungry and needing me.... William, if you see any traces of my Luky you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
And William, oppressed by the weight of his guilty secret, muttered something inaudible and went to watch the effect of his new pet upon Jumble.
That night the plaintive cry arose again to his room.
“Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Luk-ee-ee-ee! Luky, Luky. Where are you, darling? Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Lukee-ee-ee-ee.”
*****
William’s conscience, though absolved of the crime of murder, felt heavy as Miss Amelia Blake called her lost pet mournfully night after night.
Now William’s conscience was a curious organ. It needed a great deal to rouse it. When roused it demanded immediate action. He took one of his white rats round to Miss Amelia Blake, and Miss Amelia Blake screamed and got on to the table. He even rose to supreme heights of self-denial, and offered her his baby tortoise, but she refused it.
“No, William dear, it’s very kind of you, but what I need is something I can stroke—and I don’t want anything but my Luky—and I—I don’t like its expression—it looks as if it might bite. I couldn’t stroke that!”
Greatly relieved, William took it back.
That afternoon, perched on the garden fence, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, he watched the antics of Jumble round the baby tortoise. Though William had had the tortoise for three days now, Jumble still barked at it with unabated fury, and William watched the two with unabated interest. But William’s thoughts were still occupied with the Twinkie-Luky problem. The ethics of the case were difficult. It belonged to Miss Blake, but Miss Cliff had paid for it. Then suddenly the solution occurred to him—a week each. They should have it a week each—that would be quite easy to manage. His heart lightened. He jumped down, put his tortoise into his pocket, called “Hi, Jumble!”, took a stick, jumped (almost) over the bed in the middle of the lawn, and went whistling down the road followed by Jumble.
The covered basket was very old and very shabby, and it did not need much persuasion on William’s part to induce Mrs. Brown to give it to him.
“Jus’ to keep my things in an’ carry ’em about in, mother,” he said plaintively, “so as I won’t be so untidy. I shan’t be half as untidy if I have a basket like that to keep my things in an’ carry ’em about in.”
“All right, dear,” said Mrs. Brown, much pleased.
She was eternally optimistic about William.
William spent an entire Saturday morning stalking Luky in the neighbourhood of Miss Cliff’s garden (Miss Cliff went into the town to do her shopping on Saturday mornings). Finally he caught him, put him in the basket, and secretly deposited Luky in Miss Amelia Blake’s garden. Miss Blake was overjoyed.
“He’s come back, Mrs. Brown! Mrs. Brown, he’s come back. William, he’s come back—Luky’s come back.”
Miss Cliff was distraught.
“Little boy, you haven’t seen my Twinkie anywhere, have you? My darling Twinkie, he’s gone. Twinkie! Twinkie! Twinkie! Twinkie! Twinkie-ee-ee!”
The next four Saturdays he successfully changed Twinkie-Luky’s place of abode. On arrival at Miss Cliff’s, Twinkie made immediately for his favourite cushion and went to sleep. On arrival at Miss Amelia Blake’s Luky did the same. The owners became almost accustomed to the week’s mysterious absence.
“He’s gone away again, Mrs. Brown,” Miss Blake would call over the fence. “I only hope he’ll come back as he did last time. You haven’t seen him, have you? Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Lukee-ee-ee-ee-ee!”
Then William became bored. At first the glorious consciousness of duty done and the salving of his sense of guilt had upheld him, but he began to feel that this could not go on for ever. When all is said and done, Saturday is Saturday—a golden holiday in a drab procession of schooldays. William began to think that if he had to spend every Saturday of his life stalking Twinkie-Luky and conveying him secretly from one end of the village to the other, he might just as well not have been born——
*****
He had put Twinkie-Luky in the basket and was setting off with it down the road. It was very hot and Twinkie-Luky was very heavy and William was very cross. He had just come to the conclusion that some other solution must be found to the Twinkie-Luky problem when he heard the sound of the ’bus that made its slow and noisy progress from the neighbouring country town to the village in which William lived.
A ride in the ’bus would save him a long, hot walk with the heavy basket, and by some miraculous chance he had the requisite penny in his pocket. And anyhow, he was sick of the whole thing. He hailed the ’bus by swinging the basket round and putting out his tongue at the driver. The driver put his out in return, and the ’bus stopped. William, holding the basket, entered. The ’bus was very full, but there was one empty seat. William had taken this seat before he realised with horror that on one side of him sat Miss Amelia Blake and on the other Miss Cliff.
The ’bus had started again, and it was too late to get out. He went rather pale, pretended not to see them, stared in front of him with a set, stern expression on his face, and clasped the basket containing Twinkie-Luky tightly to his bosom. Miss Amelia Blake and Miss Cliff did not “know” each other. But they both knew William.
“Good morning, little boy,” said Miss Cliff.
“Mornin’,” muttered William, still staring straight in front of him.
“Good morning, William,” said Miss Blake.
“Mornin’,” muttered William.
“Have you been doing some shopping for your mother?” said Miss Blake brightly.
“Umph!” said William, his eyes still fixed desperately on the opposite window, the basket still clutched tightly to his breast.
“You must call and see my pussy again soon, little boy,” said Miss Cliff.
A shadow passed over Miss Amelia Blake’s face.
“You haven’t seen Luky, have you, William? He’s been away all this week.”
“LUKY!” CRIED MISS BLAKE.
“TWINKIE!” EXCLAIMED MISS CLIFF.
“HE’S MINE!”
“HE ISN’T!”
William felt a spasmodic movement in the basket at the sound of the name. He moistened his lips and shook his head.
Miss Amelia Blake was looking with interest at his basket. It happened that she wanted a new shopping basket, and had called at the basket-shop about one that morning.
A BLACK HEAD AROSE FROM THE BASKET AND PURRED.
“May I look at your basket, William?” she said kindly. “I like these covered baskets for shopping. The things can’t tumble out. On the other hand, of course, you can’t get so many things in. Are the fastenings firm?”
Her hand was outstretched innocently towards the fastenings. A cold perspiration broke out over William. He put his hands desperately over the fastenings.
“I wun’t—I wun’t touch ’em,” he said hoarsely. “It’s—it’s a bit full. I wun’t like all the things to come tumblin’ out here.”
Miss Amelia Blake smiled agreement and Miss Cliff beamed on him from the other side. William was wishing that the earth would open and swallow up Miss Amelia Blake and Miss Cliff and Twinkie-Luky and himself.
At last the ’bus stopped at the cross-road and they all got out. William’s relief was indescribable. That was over. And it was the last time he’d ever change their ole cats for ’em. He turned to go down the road, but Miss Amelia Blake put her hand on his arm.
“I’ll hold it very carefully, William,” she pleaded. “I won’t let anything tumble out, but I do want to see if the fastenings of these baskets are secure.”
Miss Cliff stood by smiling with interested curiosity. William mutely abandoned himself to Fate. Miss Amelia Blake opened one fastening, the flap turned back, and a black-whiskered head arose and looked around with a purr.
“Luky!”
“Twinkie!”
“He’s mine.”
“I bought him at Mr. Gorton’s.”
“He’s mine,” cried Miss Cliff.
“He isn’t,” retorted Miss Blake.
“He knows me—Twinkie!”
“Luky!”
Both made a grab at Twinkie-Luky, but Twinkie-Luky escaped both and flew like a dart down the road in the direction of Mr. Gorton’s. Like all real gentlemen, Twinkie-Luky preferred death to a scene. William was no coward, but even a braver man than William would have fled. William’s fleeing figure was already half-way down the road in which his home lay.
At the cross-roads Miss Amelia Blake and Miss Cliff clung to each other hysterically and sent forth shrill, discordant cries after the fleeing Twinkie-Luky.
“Twinkie, Twinkie, Twinkie, Twinkie, Twink-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee!”
“Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Lukee-ee-ee-ee-ee!”
And William ran as if all the cats in the world were at his heels.