CHAPTER TWELVE
THE DEMON MOUSER
The crofter lived down by the marsh, where he owned some fields with blackish-brown soil, which he was ploughing for the autumn sowing....
The ploughing progressed spasmodically; for he had only one horse, and that a small one, that had to stop every few minutes for breath.
“Get along!” said the man to it lethargically.... “Gee up!”
But the horse declined; it considered that it should be allowed a little longer respite.
“Gee up!” came the order again—and now the man took hold of the reins which hung loose on the horse’s back.
The nag continued to breathe heavily. The whip had to be produced.
“Get along!... Gee up!”
The old crock lunged out behind and gave a hop into the air—the preliminaries to starting.
At last they got going again.... Slowly, very slowly, the ploughshare pushed up the wet earth. The horse pulled itself together and strained at the harness until the traces quivered; it lunged with its legs and threw its weight forward, making the plough go faster and faster, so that the little man had to hurry to keep pace, and once or twice had to run.
Things went like a house afire for about twenty yards; then the horse stopped abruptly—time for another rest!
“First-rate!” thought the crofter—and rested also.
Thus, each perfectly understanding the other, they ploughed away patiently the whole day long....
One evening the crofter stopped earlier than usual.... The heavens were ablaze and the horizon seethed with flame; the last remnants of day were being cremated!
Having settled his assistant comfortably in the stall, he set out over the hill to a meadow where he had grazing rights.
A little later he appeared again leading a small red cow-calf, his bent back and bowed legs silhouetted gnome-like against the sunset.
The weather was too cold now, besides being too rough and stormy, to leave young cattle out after dark!
After bolting the calf in, he stands a moment outside his door and reads from a scrap of newspaper. Suddenly he notices a slight movement at his feet, and, looking down, sees a little white kitten with arched back and lifted tail rubbing itself affectionately against his wooden clogs.
“Well I never! Where did you spring from?”
White becomes nervous at hearing a human voice and hops away a little. The crofter bends down and makes coaxing noises to her.
She comes nearer again, and now she feels a hand grasp her round the body—how deliciously it tickles!...
The little farmer’s house, which formed one with the stall and barn, was overrun with mice. Of an evening when he sat reading they would often come peeping over the edge of the table and crawl over his trousers.
He never told how they behaved when he was in bed!
At intervals he brought the farm-cat into the rooms; but it never had the faintest notion of what was required, and rushed about terrified, knocking everything down until it was let out again.
White-kitten, therefore, was not unwelcome!
She behaved at once as if she had lived in a house all her life! She learned to chase after mice on the chest-of-drawers without overturning the shell-mounted frame containing the photograph of the man in his soldier’s uniform, and to catch flies on the table without stepping into the dripping-dish or tea-mug.
She was industrious, affectionate, and anxious to please, besides which, she knew when to keep out of the way when not wanted. In fact, she behaved in every respect just as the slave nature in man prefers his dependents to behave!
The mice soon disappeared completely! Not because they were captured, but because they could not endure the constant persecution....
And White was named the “demon mouser!”
EXIT RED
Sulphur-yellow, gall-green shafts mingle with the scarlet of the sunrise, and slowly wrest a large quadrangular farmhouse from the cloudy October dawn’s foul wet mists.
Outside the cow-stall, an old-fashioned milk-jar with its narrow neck appears out of the grey dawn. The milk-woman uses it every morning to take a pint of milk home to her children. A few traces of milk still cling to the bottom—enough, at any rate, to tempt a sweet-tooth!
The woman is inside milking, when Red comes sneaking along the barn, catches sight of the jar, sticks her nose in, and smells distinctly the milk on the bottom. She rests her forepaws on the round, bulging body of the vessel, and tries hard to push her head through the narrow neck.
After several attempts she manages, by turning her head vigorously from side to side, to slide it in, her ears pressed tightly back and her furry cheeks brushing the smooth earthenware.
She has succeeded—and she licks the jar cleaner than it has ever been before since the day it was made.
Then she prepares to retreat. But now, suddenly, she cannot get her head out; her thick neck and gristly ears are wedged fast! She becomes flurried ... and instead of trying to wriggle out gently, she begins to tug and wrestle; with the result that she fixes her frightful mask more firmly still. She topples over on her side, and rolls about clawing dementedly at the stone cobbles—until at last she regains her feet and staggers blindly into the yard.
The weird figure is soon seen from one of the windows. Now they’ve got her at last!
They recognize her at once—so a sack is soon fetched and slipped over her hind parts. For now she shall be drowned!
Just then a rag and bone man turns into the yard.
Once or twice a year he comes and buys old rags and bottles, and all sorts of worthless rubbish.
The fellow at once notices the cat’s shining fox-red coat—and the quick-witted farmer conceives a brilliant idea. The fellow has cheated him so many times; now he shall be paid back in his own coin!
With a cautious tap of the hammer he releases the cat from the jar....
“Do you want to buy a splendid mouser?”
“You bet I do!” replies the ragged one ... it was just what he was looking for.
The farmer piled on the agony. “Yes, she’s a record killer! You will scarcely believe it, but just before you came into the yard, she nearly strangled herself capturing a mouse which had dived into this milk-jar!”
The rag and bone man was completely taken in; he bought the cat eagerly and immediately.
He put Red in his sack, and the two thieves left the yard together.
BIG-KITTEN TURNS WILD CAT
One autumn evening, as huge, billowy clouds are drifting across the orange-gold western sky, Big-cat wakes in his lair and feels the call to action. The noise of day has died from the fields, and the cows with their watching eyes have gone to rest for the night....
He slinks across naked, deserted fields, where the wild camomile lifts its cheerful face above the white-grey stubble. Like all great hunters, he feels the need of a constant change of hunting-grounds; hence his journey through the cold, dry September night, lighted by the pale, shining, half-grown moon.
Over hill and along hawthorn hedge he hurries; catches a lark in her nest, and a mouse by a daring leap from a post—and at daybreak lies down for his day’s rest behind a yellow grass-tuft in a dry, secluded gravel-pit.
Towards noon he is awakened by the sound of paws in the shingle. He should just have remained lying still among the grass—which was grey-yellow and withered black in colour, and not unlike his own marking—but he forgot himself and ran.
The big, spotted hound got quite a shock; he stepped for a moment and looked back. Two men with guns, one of whom was “Uncas’” master, were approaching, talking together and pulling at their pipes.
Uncas seized his opportunity and tore after the cat.
The men began shouting and whistling; but as far as the dog was concerned the die was cast. Nothing could stop him now—away he went at a wild gallop!
Just ahead, the river flows in a long, graceful curve, its cold, black waters scaring the yellow autumnal landscape.
Big knows the river well; he knows, too, that not even his jump can clear it. He therefore makes for the wooden bridge.
The main road crosses the bridge....
When the cat is half-way over, he feels the woodwork vibrate in a curious manner beneath his feet; he sees a spitting, humming, machine-animal whizzing towards him....
Just behind him is the dog, barking excitedly....
For a moment Big-cat hesitates; then, seeing no alternative, leaps bravely between the iron railings and falls with a splash into the river.
He sinks like a stone through the water, but the moment it closes over his head he commences kicking instinctively with his legs. At last he gets air again; he sees the sky above him. He swims mechanically—but believes that he is running through the water....
The motor-cycle rushed on over the bridge—the dog crossed its path; a howl, a crash, oaths and curses....
Meanwhile a dripping, bedraggled cat galloped away across the fields. He shook himself, and ran, and then shook himself again.... He has managed to come out on top as usual!
He kept on at full speed until he reached the boundaries of a large, private wood some distance away, by which time his fur was quite dry from his exertions. After several vain attempts he succeeded in scaling the tall, wooden palisade surrounding the wood, and, plunging in among the trees, soon came to a tumble-down game-keeper’s hut, in the loft of which he remained in comfort for a week.
From here he made excursions in all directions; but the old willow stump and the long, winding hawthorn hedge were no longer in sight to remind him to return, and with the disappearance of these and other landmarks the threads that bound him to his home snapped for ever.
He drifted farther and farther away out into the wide world, and finished his career as wild cat in a distant deer park.
THE HOME OF THE FISHERMAN
After leaving the village the main road rose over the brow of the hill and ran down again between rich, fertile fields until it crossed the river which hugged the valley.
At the bottom of the hill a small, idyllic brook had once flowed into the river, but it had dried up, leaving behind only the shallow watercourse, which now served as a drain.
The road crossed the river by means of a flint-paved bridge, and swung round a fisherman’s cottage before continuing farther across country.
The fisherman had been a widower for thirteen years, and he had lived in the house for twenty—so that he knew its ins and outs fairly well. A small garden and a few rods of ploughed land supplied potatoes for him and oats for his horse. Three or four times a week he drove round the countryside selling the fish he caught in the fjord. It was a long way for the horse to pull—sometimes as much as twenty-five or thirty miles a day; but in return the beast was often allowed to slack for several days on end.
The gables of the building faced east-west, and all its doors and its small windows opened towards the south.
The west end, which was nearest the road, formed the stall and pigsty—in which a pig was always grunting. The outhouse, consisting of woodshed and barn, was situated on the east, from which direction the winter storms usually raged. Between the two nestled the inhabited quarter, comprising corridor, tiny kitchen, and living-room.
For seven years it had been vouchsafed the fisherman to live in this room with his wife; then she died, leaving behind her seven children, who had long since deserted the parental roof. From the quiet, peaceful countryside to which their father clung with his whole nature, they had emigrated to the big town, which they could not imagine themselves leaving.
“I’ve had enough of all that fuss with children,” said the fisherman. “Thank goodness it’s over and done with!”
Now he lived totally alone. He kept the house in order himself, and made the food himself—and smoked his way with cheap tobacco through the long, winter evenings.
It was quite cosy in the living-room, where a pair of large pictures of himself and his wife when young hung on the wall, and where the inevitable soldier-photographs of the boys—who all later on became navvies or brick-layers—stood upon the chest-of-drawers. In the window beneath the short cotton curtains stood well-tended pot-plants on neat wooden stands.... It was all meagre enough, but decent and orderly.
In addition to the horse, which was the old man’s jewel, and the pig, which was treated as a son, he owned a little dog called Bibs. The latter guarded the house when his master was away.
Bibs reigned in the living-room. Outside—in the stall, barn, and loft—a cat was in command; but in reality the post was vacant, for old Peter, with his pale, lack-lustre eyes and moth-eaten tail, was now so decrepit and worn-out that he could no longer hear whether mice or other vermin scratched or not.
For fourteen years the cat had lived with the fisherman, who alleged that he was so intelligent that he understood what was said to him. For instance, if the cat sat by the stove and the man bent down and shouted, “Peter, get out!” he got up and went out.
He always ran to meet the fish-cart when it came home from the fishing-place laden with eels or herring—and as reward the fisherman would fling him a squab or a dab, or perhaps a small eel. He could recognize the horse’s trot from a great distance, and when it came in sight he miauwed with delight, opening his mouth so wide that one could see far down into his stomach.
In his palmy days he used to run a mile along the road to meet the cart—but now he could only manage a couple of hundred yards.
Peter was the apple of the fisherman’s eye, and Grey would never have found favour with him had not the old cat himself received his successor, when she suddenly walked in one freezing autumn morning, with the utmost graciousness.
For Grey-kitten was a lady, and old Mr. Peter’s ingrained tendency towards gallantry acquired new life at the sight of the pretty, little, long-eared pussy-cat. A golden gleam filled the fellow’s pale eyes, and the fisherman often saw the stiff, rheumatic old tyke sitting for hours at a time under a tree up which his new, agile little lodger had fled.
But one day when it is raining hard, Grey-kitten cannot escape from the old stink-pot; she has to run up into the hayloft.
Peter crawls up the ladder in pursuit, and Grey springs out of the window on to a headless poplar growing beside the house.
Peter, forgetting his age, makes a rash leap after her ... but misses his footing and falls into the water.
However, he is quickly on land again, where he sits down and waits faithfully under the tree in which the object of his senile affection is enthroned.
He shakes with cold, but endures bravely—and when the fisherman returns home in the evening, he finds his old comrade still sitting there, stiff and dead....
After that Grey inherited his office as a matter of course, and as time passed succeeded in discharging it entirely to her master’s satisfaction.
She was called “Puss” and “Pussy-girl”—and she had a busy time ridding the old, neglected hovel of mice. She soon made herself at home in the stall, barn, and loft, which were just as dark and dirty as the burial-mound and the willow bole.
One day, only six months later, she came running with her tail proudly hoisted, to meet the old fisherman as he was driving home, and jumped up beside him in the cart. And then, after the horse had been put in the stall and the fish-boxes unloaded, she was given two or three little eels or dabs.
Fish had always been her favourite food!
BLACK JOINS THE ARMY
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!