Within the hour the afflicted animal had taken up temporary residence on board the “Jane Gladys.” Sundry dainties which had, at Mr. Lock’s instruction, been secured for the patient’s diet served as an excellent dinner that day for two impecunious mariners. An indignant black cat found that “rest and quiet” were terms interpreted on the “Jane Gladys” by enforced seclusion in a sea-chest while the human occupants of the fo’c’sle enjoyed a protracted siesta after their meal. Indeed, it was only when a late tea had restored full energy to Mr. Lock that he recollected the needs of his patient. A foray in the galley was rewarded with the discovery of a red herring in a dark corner, and, armed with this booty, Mr. Lock prepared to inaugurate an altered course of dietetics for his patient.
Cautiously he raised the lid of the chest, but not cautiously enough; for the black cat, wearied of solitary confinement, slipped through the opening, and, easily dodging the convulsive clutch of Mr. Lock and the outstretched hands of the interested Mr. Tridge, it streaked out of the fo’c’sle and up on to the deck. Mr. Lock’s ill-timed recriminations of Mr. Tridge’s clumsiness caused a regrettable delay in pursuit, and when at last the two sailormen had reached the deck, the black cat had completely vanished in the darkness.
Frenzied and exhaustive search was made, only to be abandoned in the end when sundry sportive souls on the wharf took to jocund mimicry of the enticing calls made by Mr. Lock and his companion. Loudly did Mr. Lock bewail so inauspicious and swift a termination to his high hopes of the conduct of a milk-cart.
And moodily did he make his way to Fore Street, there to seek Mr. Dobb in his home, and tell him of this underhand trick which the cat had played upon one who had desired to deal benevolently by it.
“Well, it’s no good crying over spilt milk-carts,” pronounced Mr. Dobb, when his visitor began to sorrow over the wreck of his ambitions. “You’ve got to be up and doing—that’s all. As long as that cat don’t turn up at its old ’ome, you’ve always got a chance of finding it again somewhere.”
“Suppose we don’t find it, though?” asked Mr. Lock.
“Things might be worse even then,” said Mr. Dobb. “After all,” he hinted, “one black cat is very like another. And they can’t talk and give things away, can they?”
“No,” agreed Mr. Lock, immensely relieved. “And, besides, a cat that’s been taken away to be cured of fits ain’t hardly likely to look quite the same when it comes back again, is it?”
A nod of perfect understanding passed between these two keen tacticians, and Mr. Dobb promised that he would take care to call frequently at the residence of the Golightlys to ascertain whether Jonathan was controlled by homing instincts sufficiently serviceable to lead him back to his mistress. In that deplorable event, it was decided that action must depend upon the inspiration of the moment. In the meanwhile, Mr. Lock expressed his firm intention of securing another black cat from somewhere, and making its escape a matter of impossibility this time.
And thus it was that Mr. Lock, going wistfully about the environs of the harbour at a late hour that night at last managed to track down and capture an animal of the species and colour that he desired. He conveyed his protesting prisoner swiftly aboard the “Jane Gladys,” and there he extemporized for it a prison system from which not even a cat provided with a burglar’s kit and the ability to use it could have escaped.