“That ain’t your cat!” denied Mr. Lock. “’E’s only a mangy old stray you’ve got ’old of. There’s your Jonathan in the fire-place there. Cured and improved out of all recognition.”
Mrs. Golightly picked up both cats and set them side by side.
“Jonathan!” she called, and the cat that Mr. Lock had brought foolishly strove to get up the chimney, while the other animal, uttering a half-plaintive, half-delighted mew, tottered forward to lick the lady’s hand.
“‘Never let him out of my sight’!” cried Mrs. Golightly. “‘Washed and brushed him every day! Fed him on all the best! Sat by ’im till ’e went off—’! ’Ere!” she ended, fiercely. “You go off—now—this minute! Else—”
Mr. Lock, ever one to recognize defeat, turned to take his departure. Mrs. Golightly, retrieving the alien cat from the chimney, thrust it into the hamper.
“’Ere, take your rubbish with you!” she ordered; and, thus encumbered, Mr. Lock took his departure.
“Blest if I am so sure that black cats are always lucky!” he murmured, dazedly.
At the corner of the road he ran into Mr. Horace Dobb. Mr. Dobb was in a state of considerable excitement.
“You ’aven’t left that cat at the Golightlys’ yet, then?” he observed, with relief. And, taking Mr. Lock by the arm, eagerly dragged him forward. “Well, then, the Golightlys ’ave lost their second chance of a cat, that’s all! ’Ere, come on in ’ere!” he directed, turning into the “Royal William.”
The aggressive landlady and the cheerful little landlord were behind the counter. At Mr. Dobb’s entry, they both turned expectantly towards him, and the severity of the landlady perceptively waned.