Part 7

This was not a very good thought for a hungry kitten to cherish in sight of a well-furnished table; and the said table being left for the moment without any guard, she mounted upon a chair and carefully abstracted a small piece of beef, which she thought would not be missed. She had hardly jumped down with her prize, and secreted herself behind the closet-door, before Mrs. Webster entered the room. Tabby shrunk into the smallest possible compass, and was careful not to make the least particle of noise in devouring her morsel, which seemed, from its smallness, to increase her hunger, as it certainly did her thirst.

Mrs. Webster cast a vigilant eye upon the table, altered the arrangement of things a little, and then proceeded to take the biscuits out of the oven and to make tea. This done, she washed her hands, settled her very handsome silk dress and head-dress a little, and invited the ladies who were her guests to sit down. Polly did not make her appearance, but stayed in the bedroom to tend the baby, and Mr. Webster had not come in. Indeed, he rather avoided his wife's tea-parties, for he did not particularly like her fine friends, and could not help thinking that they sometimes amused themselves at her attempts to be genteel, in which conjecture he was perfectly right, at least so far as regarded Mrs. Cox.

"I had a call from one of your neighbours the other day, Mrs. Webster," said Mrs. Cox, as she was buttering her biscuit.

"From one of my neighbours?" repeated Mrs. Webster. "Who could it be? I did not know that there was any one here who visited you."

"Neither more nor less than Mrs. Bond, the policeman's lady," replied Mrs. Cox, laughing heartily. "Only think how honoured I felt!"

"You don't mean to say that woman actually came to call on you!" said Mrs. Webster, in a tone intended to express the utmost surprise at the said woman's audacity.

"She certainly did. I thought she came on an errand at first, of course, and waited patiently to find out what she wanted, not dreaming, of course, that she intended a visit. I did not even ask her to sit down, but she helped herself to a chair, and sat talking as freely as you please. Presently there was a ring at the door, and in walked Mrs. Lamb. I felt ashamed enough, I can tell you, especially as Mrs. Bond never offered to go, but sat talking in her calico frock and hood, as composedly as if she were the grandest lady in the land. However, I took care to tell Mrs. Lamb, after she had gone, that she was only a poor person who had come on an errand."

"I suppose you will hardly return her visit," said Mrs. Webster, and both the "ladies" laughed, as though the idea was a very ridiculous one. "She is always running in here," continued Mrs. Webster, "and, I am sorry to say, my Marianne has got up a wonderful intimacy with her oldest daughter. I have tried to break it up, but find it difficult, as they go to school together, and are in the same class in Sunday-school. I think it has a very unfavourable effect upon Marianne's manners."

"I never allow 'my' children to associate with 'common' children," said Mrs. Cox, drawing herself up. "There are only two families in the street that I permit them to play with at all. I should not think I was performing the duties of a parent if I allowed them to form improper associations."

"I saw your Fred out in the barn with Tom Bond the other day," said the other lady, who had hitherto been rather silent. "They were amusing themselves with stoning a kitten that was making its way through the snow—at least Fred was, for I did not see Tom throw anything. I think the Bond children very nice well-trained little things, for my part."

"I think you must be mistaken, Mrs. Randall," said Mrs. Cox, colouring, and looking extremely offended. "My Frederick is too obedient to his parents' commands to form improper associations, and he and his brothers have been particularly enjoined to avoid any intimacy with the Bonds."

"I think I shall take some more decided steps to break off Marianne's intimacy with them," remarked Mrs. Webster; "and I certainly shall discourage Mrs. Bond's running in here as often as she does. It is very disagreeable."

"What a mean woman!" thought Tabby. "Just as if I did not hear her send Polly over there to borrow things, at least three times this morning."

But if even Tabby's indignation was roused, we may be sure Polly's was to the boiling-point. She could only find relief by talking to herself.

"Yes, it is all very well to talk about breaking off with the Bonds. I wonder who went over to Mrs. Bond's yesterday to get her to cut out a cap for Tommy, and stayed all the morning, though Mrs. Bond's baby was sick, and she was just as busy as she could be washing? And who sends to her for all sorts of things every day in the week? I should think they would be ashamed."

But Mrs. Cox was again holding forth in her oratorical tones:

"Yes, we always dine late—at four o'clock. I would not dine a moment earlier on any account. Mr. Cox comes home from the counting-house at that time, and I always intend to have my dinner ready, and of the best quality. We usually have soup. Mr. Cox is exceedingly fond of soup and dessert;" which Mrs. Cox pronounced "desert," as though she had meant a sandy waste. "Mr. Cox says he enjoys his dessert more than all the rest of his dinner. Mrs. Lamb dines at six o'clock, but as Mr. Cox is obliged at present to return to the counting-house at five, that hour is not convenient for him."

"There she goes!" said Polly. "I never saw Mrs. Cox in the world that she did not say something about dinner. I must say, I don't think it is very genteel to talk so much about eating and drinking."

Mrs. Webster now offered her guests a bit of the smoked halibut which she had been reserving for this grand occasion. Mrs. Randall accepted it, and expressed herself fond of it, but Mrs. Cox declined.

"I never eat such things at tea," she said in her emphatic and decided manner. "Relishes for tea are entirely out of fashion, quite out of date in fact, and so are warm biscuits. They are considered by many very unwholesome, and Mr. Cox never eats them at tea. This bread and butter is all the go," she concluded elegantly. "Mrs. Lamb has this bread and butter."

"Well, I call that polite!" thought Tabby. "Just after she has been eating them!"

Poor Mrs. Webster! The want of the goblets and silver forks was nothing to this. After she had taken such pains to provide nice light biscuits, and had cut her dried beef so thin, and cooked her halibut to a turn, to be told upon a Mrs. Lamb's high authority, indorsed by a Mrs. Cox, that relishes were out of fashion, and that nobody ate hot rolls! She felt herself reduced to the level of a nobody at once.

"Indeed, I think the biscuits are very nice," said quiet Mrs. Randall, helping herself to another, "and so is the fish. What signifies whether things are fashionable or not, so long as they are good and convenient?"

But Mrs. Webster was not to be consoled by one who held such views as these, and applied herself to Mrs. Cox with the intention of gaining such further information as should prevent her making such fatal mistakes in future.

"And for breakfast, Mrs. Cox? What do you think about breakfast?"

"Oh! Hot rolls for breakfast by all means, and toast and eggs."

"I like that woman," said Tabby to herself. "I wish I knew where she lived, and I would go there to-morrow. As for that other woman, she is just fit to be the mother of that hateful boy who threw the apple at me."

"Much she knows about gentility!" was Polly's comment. "Mrs. Bond is as good as she is, any day, and ten times as much of a lady. I should like to know why she should not call on Mrs. Cox if she wants to do so, though why she should I can't imagine. And for mother to talk so about her, when she is for ever sending there for things, and getting Mrs. Bond to do things for her, and to help her about her work! I would not ask favours of people that I was ashamed of associating with, for my part."

Polly's soliloquy was interrupted by a call to supper, and having at last succeeded in getting the baby to sleep, she laid him on the bed, sitting by him a few moments to pat and hush him; for she loved her little brother dearly, and never grudged the time she spent in tending him.

Meanwhile Tabby was left alone in the kitchen. The table was still standing, with its attractive-looking plates of meat and cakes, and the cellar-door was open. The temptation was too much for Tabby. She sprang upon the table, and Mrs. Webster, coming in from the other room, was just in time to see Tabby finish a drink out of the cream-jug, and seize the piece of fish in her mouth. She sprang forward, but the four feet were too nimble for her two, and puss and fish vanished through the cellar-door.

"What a naughty kitten!" some of my young readers will doubtless exclaim. "I don't care what becomes of such a little thief."

It is doubtless very naughty to steal, but let me ask you one question: Were you ever in all your life very hungry? I daresay you have been hungry enough to have your dinner or supper taste very good to you, but did you ever go without food till your head turned round with giddiness, and ached as though it would split, and your limbs trembled, and your eyes seemed full of black and green spots, and there was a pain in your stomach as though a rat was gnawing through it? Unless you have experienced a sensation like this, you can hardly form a correct estimate of the temptation presented to poor Tabby, who had been almost entirely without food for thirty-six hours. Suppose you had eaten nothing since yesterday morning at breakfast, and had been more than half that time out of doors, with the thermometer below zero! And then suppose that, under such circumstances, you had been left alone in the room with a piece of cake, what do you suppose would become of the cake?

I am not saying that it was not wrong for Tabby to steal. It was very wrong, and very short-sighted besides; for Polly had fully intended to divide her supper with the kitten, in which case not only would she have fared better, but she would have escaped the consequences of her theft, which, as we shall see, very nearly cost her her life. Some misgivings, indeed, passed through Tabby's own mind, as she was devouring her prize behind the pork-barrel, whither she had fled for safety.

"I know mother would say I ought not to have taken it," she said to herself, "but I was so hungry, it seemed as though I could not wait another minute. Well, they will not do anything to me to-night, because of the company, and to-morrow I will surely find some way of escape."

But Tabby reckoned without her host. Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Randall took their leave about half-past seven; and no sooner were they gone, than Mrs. Webster went down to the cellar, armed with broom and candle, drove Tabby from her place of refuge, and after more than once chasing her round the cellar, seized her by the back of the neck, and despite her struggles and scratches, bore her to the upper air. Tabby mewed piteously, and Polly cried and expostulated, but all in vain.

Mrs. Webster carried her to the fence, and shouted "David!"

A rough-looking man, with a pipe in his mouth, made his appearance from the next house, which was not much more than a hut.

"Here, I want you to take this cat, and throw her over the bridge. I will give you an old bag to tie her in, and be sure you put a good heavy stone in it. Do it directly, and I will give you sixpence."

The bag was produced and handed to David, who promised to execute the command, and poor Tabby soon found herself enveloped in a warm, ill-smelling old bag, and going she knew not whither, or rather, alas she knew too well. In all her previous adventures, she had never given up the expectation of reaching home, and seeing all her dear friends again, but now hope itself seemed to forsake her. Her head whirled round. All sorts of confused thoughts and images passed through her mind: the happy home she had deserted so wilfully; the kind and self-sacrificing mother whom she had rewarded with such base ingratitude, though she had so carefully tended her, and never thought she could do too much for her; the dear little brother, who loved her in spite of her unkindness to him.

She seemed to see herself a little helpless being, unable to move a limb in her own defence, or even to get her eyes wide open, and her good mother watching and guarding her with the tenderest solicitude. Then when she began to creep out of her basket, and play about with Tody, how careful her mother was to keep her out of danger, and how many hours she had spent in amusing her, and teaching her the use of her limbs; how she had always given her the best morsels on their common plate, and how much pains she had taken to teach her to catch mice for herself. Remembrances of Ella and Marian and all their kindness, of Tessy's affection and Agnes Warrington's cruelty, mingled with these reflections, and all seemed confusedly mixed up with Carlo's bark and the neighing of horses, with the conversation she had lately heard, and the sobs and entreaties of Polly, interceding with her hard-hearted mother for the life of her favourite. In the midst of it all, she heard a rushing sound—knew that the river was near—felt a sudden shock, and a swift descent, and lost all consciousness as the cold waters closed over her head, apparently for ever.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

THE POLICE OFFICE.

IN a few moments Tabby recovered her senses, astonished to find herself still alive. Alive she certainly was, though thoroughly wet and cold, and entirely in the dark. She heard the water rushing around her, and at first she thought she was floating down the stream, but a minute or two of observation convinced her that she must be stationary, and, with her usual energy of character, she began to make some desperate struggles to get out. After much fruitless scratching and biting, she at last succeeded in making a hole, through which she thrust first her paws, then her head, and finally her whole body. As soon as she was out of her prison, she looked around, and discovered to what she owed her preservation. David, who as usual was more than half-tipsy, had forgotten to put a stone in the bag, which had consequently floated instead of sinking, and being swept down by the rapid current, had lodged upon a long tongue of ice which projected from the shore.

But Tabby did not spend much time in observation, for she felt that her situation was a very precarious one; and miserable as she was, the instinct of self-preservation was strong within her. After two or three ineffectual attempts, she got upon her feet, and began slowly and cautiously to make her way toward the land. The ice was wet and slippery, and perhaps no other animal than a cat could have kept footing upon it; even Tabby found some difficulty in doing so, and had several falls, at each of which she gave herself up for lost, till, finding that she was not in the water, a renewed effort was made again to struggle on. She had almost reached the shore, when a terrible crack and a violent concussion caused great alarm, and the piece of ice slowly separated from the bank, and floated down the stream. Tabby made one more effort for life. Collecting all her little strength, she made a desperate spring, and, much to her astonishment, found herself safely on dry land, while the ice which had been the means of saving her life went rapidly down with the current.

"Well done, little pussy!" said a not unkind voice near her. "That wasn't a bad jump. A moment more, and it would have been all over with you."

Tabby looked up in amazement.

The speaker was a boy of twelve or thirteen years old, very poorly dressed in ragged and coarse clothes, and with an indescribable forlorn air about him. He was sitting on a log by the river side, and seemed to have been employed in watching her efforts, for he added: "I didn't think, when I first spied you out there, that you would ever get safe to land. Come here and let me dry you off, or you'll freeze to death. Poor little toad! It isn't so nice to be out in a winter's night with nothing to eat, and no place to go to—is it, pussy?"

Rough-looking subject as the boy was, his tone of sympathy attracted Tabby at once. She crept up to him with some difficulty, for she was growing very cold and stiff, and made a feeble attempt to jump up on his knee. He took her up tenderly enough, and after rubbing her as dry as he could with a very ragged handkerchief, he put her in his breast, and buttoned his loose jacket over her. His kindness and the genial warmth revived poor Tabby's fast-failing strength, and as the chill passed off her benumbed limbs, she began feebly to purr her thanks.

"I daresay you are as hungry as I am," said the boy, patting her head, which she was rubbing against his chin: "but I have nothing to give you, pussy. But never mind, I guess we can stand it till morning, and then if I get anything to eat, you shall go shares. Hallo!"

At this moment a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up, he saw a policeman standing behind him. He rose rather hastily, and Tabby shrank into her place of concealment.

"Now, my lad, what are you doing here?" was the policeman's first question.

"Nothing!" was the short answer.

"You have chosen a cold place to do it in, seems to me. Why don't you go home?"

"For the best reason in the world: because I have no home to go to."

"That's bad, certainly," said Mr. Bond, not unkindly. "But haven't you any place where you stay?"

"No," was the answer, in a voice which trembled a little. "I don't know a living soul in this place."

"How did you come here, then?" was the natural question.

"I came here from Buffalo yesterday. My father and mother are dead, and I haven't got any one to take care of me, or teach me anything, and I want—" he paused a little, and then went on more firmly—"I want to go to the House of Refuge."

"To the House of Refuge," repeated the policeman, rather taken aback. "Well, I have taken a good many boys to the House of Refuge in my time, but I don't remember of any one's wanting to go of his own accord. But you know that's where they take the bad boys—you're not a bad boy, are you?"

"I suppose I am," said the child, without looking up. "Everybody says so, and when I come to think about it, I guess they are about right."

"You come along with me," said Mr. Bond, "and we'll see what can be done for you. You can't stay out all night, that's certain, because you'll freeze to death, and we can't have people freezing to death in our streets."

"So you want to get an education, do you?" said he, as they trudged along together, the boy having some trouble to keep up with the long strides of his tall companion. "Well, an education is a first-rate thing, there's no doubt about that; I tell my boys and girls so when they get a little tired of going to school. If I had had the chance that you have, says I, I should have been glad enough of it."

"If I had had any one to send me to school, I don't think I should ever have been tired of it," said the boy rather sadly.

"Oh! Well, cheer up. Maybe there's better days coming. It never rains always, you know, and I'll tell you what—what did you say your name was?"

"Jack Fletcher," was the answer.

"Well, Jack, it's half the battle with a boy, or a man either, for that matter, to make a good resolution. You say you're not a good boy,—eh?"

"No," replied Jack. "I haven't had much chance to be good. My father and mother both drank," he continued, after a little pause, and lowering his voice, "and one day my mother drank so much that she got crazy and killed herself. Then my father was taken up for murdering her, and put in jail, and there he took sick and died. He was sober then, of course, and when I went to see him, he—he told me to go off to some place where I wasn't known, and try to make an honest living. I knew a boy who had been to the House of Refuge, and he told me how they learned trades there, and what kind of times they had, and I thought that would be just the place for me. So I begged a passage on a waggon, and got here yesterday."

"But suppose you could get a place to learn a trade without going there, wouldn't you like that better?" asked Mr. Bond.

"I don't know about that," replied Jack thoughtfully. "I am afraid I should not be steady. You see I have been brought up to run in the street all day long, and it's not easy to settle down to work, unless one must. It is likely I should get into some scrape, and do something bad, and so have to be put there, and I would rather go of my own accord."

"That's very sensible, too," replied Mr. Bond. "Well, here we are at the police office, and I daresay you won't be sorry to get warm. It is a bitter night."

"Hallo, Bond, what have you got there?" was the salutation that greeted them as they entered the room, where the gas-light and coal fire gave out an amount of light and warmth which seemed little short of miraculous to Tabby, who had all the time remained close under Jack's arm. "He doesn't look like a very dangerous customer."

"It's a boy that says he wants to go to the House of Refuge," said Mr. Bond, setting a stool by the side of the fire as he spoke. "Here, Jack, sit down and get warm. You must be about frozen through, I should think."

Jack was glad to sit down, for his knees trembled, and he felt a strange sensation creeping over him which was not exactly sleepiness or fatigue. He had been seated only a moment, when the lights seemed to grow dim and the voices indistinct—his head dropped on his bosom, and one of the men sprang forward and caught him just in time to prevent his falling on the floor. The boy had fainted away. They laid him on a seat that stood at a distance from the fire, brought water and sprinkled his face, and one of them unbuttoned his jacket.

"Hallo, here's two of them," said he, as poor Tabby became visible, vainly trying to shrink out of sight. "He's got his cat here. Whittington and his cat. Well, I've seen lots of cats out at nights, but this is the first time I ever heard of one being taken up for a vagrant."

"Don't hurt her, please," feebly pleaded Jack, who was now recovering his senses.

"Don't you be frightened! Who wants to hurt her? But I say, Bond, you'll make a great figure in the report to-morrow. Officer Bond arrested a tortoise-shell kitten on a charge of vagrancy. The kitten was accompanied by a small boy—how do you feel now, Jack?"

"Better," said Jack faintly, but he could not raise his head without turning giddy.

Mr. Bond and his companion exchanged glances.

"Have you had any supper, Jack?"

"No, sir."

"Nor dinner either, perhaps?"

"No, nor breakfast either," said Jack, exerting himself to speak. "I haven't had anything to eat since yesterday noon, when a lady gave me some bread and butter."

"You just hand me that pan behind you, Foster. My wife put me up some soup for my supper, and it will be just the thing for him." He set the pan on the fire, and proceeded to break some sticks into it. "But why didn't you go in somewhere, and ask for something to eat? Almost any one would have given you a dinner."

"I didn't want to beg if I could help it," said Jack rather shortly. "I have had enough of that way of living."

"That's a good principle, too," said Mr. Bond, taking his cookery from the fire and tasting it. "Now see if you can sit up and eat something."

"May I feed the kitten?" asked Jack, after he had taken a couple of mouthfuls of the savoury soup. "I expect she is as hungry as I am."

"You eat your supper and I'll take care of the cat," said Mr. Foster, taking down his own dish, and apparently greatly amused by the whole affair—"Here, Puss, Puss!"