Mr. Dobb paused and pointed impressively at Mr. Lock.
“You’re one of the finest amytoor animal doctors in England,” he told him.
“Ho, am I?” said Mr. Lock, casually. “First I’ve heard of it.”
“Same ’ere till a hour ago,” returned Mr. Dobb. “Only I ’appened to be talking with ’er, and one thing led to another, and then I see you just ’ad to be good at animal doctoring.”
“Why?” asked Mr. Lock.
“Why, because you’re going to cure ’er pet cat of fits for ’er.”
“Am I?” remarked Mr. Lock. “’Ow do I do that?”
“That’s for you to decide,” answered Mr. Dobb, easily. “It’ll be the beginning of your job in the milk line. It’s lucky she’s got a pet cat with fits, ain’t it? It’s a black cat, too. Black cats,” he stated, dogmatically, “are always lucky.”
At mention of these words a swift tremor coursed through Mr. Lock’s frame, and he sat up in his bunk, staring hard at Mr. Tridge, and gradually raising a rigid forearm to point accusingly at him. A similar start of surprise pulsed through Mr. Tridge, and after a long, horrified stare at Mr. Lock’s damaged optics, he suddenly turned on his mattress and guiltily drew his blankets over his head. Mr. Dobb, viewing this by-play in surprise, offered the theory that his friends were rehearsing for employment as kinema actors.
“I know who done it now!” cried Mr. Lock, bitterly. “And so does he! It was you talking about black cats, ’Orace, what done it!”