“Um-ah,—” said Fido. “Your song has one very admirable feature—it has but one verse. I am not sure, however, but that I shall have to acquit the young man who shot you. Self defense, you know, my dear Tommy is—”
“Oh, stow your sarcasm, Fido!” cried Tommy. “It isn’t at all becoming to you, my boy. If you don’t want to hear the rest of my story, just say so.”
“Oh, well, Tommy, you mustn’t be so sensitive to the raillery of an old friend. Go on with your yarn. It is highly interesting.”
“Well, as I was saying, the ball lodged in my shoulder and nearly killed me. I was sick a long time, and the doctor finally took me to a veterinary for consultation. Of course I couldn’t say anything about the bullet—on the lady’s account you know—so the doctor was stumped for once. The veterinary pounded me black and blue from head to foot, and after gouging my belly full of finger holes, said—‘He’s got appendicitis, and we will have to operate.’ That settled me—I just jumped through the window, sash and all, and weak as I was, succeeded in escaping. A man who doesn’t know lead poisoning from appendicitis, can’t monkey with Tommy Baker’s domestic economy, you can just bet your life on that!
“Through the kindly offices of one of my friends I succeeded in getting accommodations in a stable near by, where I lived on mice and wind for three weeks, at the end of which time my wound was entirely well. I had more wind than mice on my stomach most of the time, but the dieting evidently did me good. I finally went home, and you never saw such rejoicing as there was among the children. They hugged me ’most to death.
“The doctor was always kind to me, but at times his attentions were quite marked. He often kept me in a little room by myself for days and days at a time. He fed me with his own hand, and was very careful of my health. He took my temperature and pulse, and looked at my tongue twice a day. Sometimes he put a little needle in my back and seemed to be squirting something under the skin. It didn’t hurt much, but I felt mighty funny a little while afterward. Queer, wasn’t it?”
Fido, who had had diphtheria once and was up on toxins, smiled rather pityingly and said, dryly, “Rather.”
“I never doubted the doctor’s honesty of purpose but once. There was a little room just off the library that he called the laboratory. He used to shut himself up in that little closet—that’s about all it was—for hours at a time. Now it wasn’t any of my business, but I couldn’t help being curious to know what he was doing in that little den. Then, too, I was certain that I smelled nice fresh meat just as he came out one day. Of course that completely demoralized me and I determined to look into the matter. Ah me! why did I not remember that old story about Bluebeard?
“Well, I watched my chance, and one night when the doctor had his back turned I sneaked into the laboratory, the door of which was slightly ajar. Noticing that he had left the door open, the doctor came back and closed and locked it, leaving me a prisoner. I was not frightened, however, for I was sure the doctor would soon be at work in the laboratory again and give me an opportunity to escape. I chuckled to myself, wretch that I was, to think that my curiosity was at last to be gratified.
“Jumping upon the table that the doctor used as a work bench, I saw a sight that froze the very whiskers on my cheeks! There, spread out upon the table lay the ghastly, mangled, lifeless body of a cat whom I recognized as one of my best friends! I fell in a dead faint.”