“Sort of a cataleptic fit—eh, Tommy?” said Fido, with a sly, humorous twinkle in his eye. Tommy disdained to answer, and continued:
“How long I lay in my swoon I do not know. When I awoke, the doctor was standing over me and saying—
“‘I wonder how the devil that blamed cat got in here! He seems to be sick.’
“Sick? Ye Gods! I should think I was sick!
“I never became quite reconciled to the doctor after that, and when, some time afterward, he forbade the children to kiss and hug me any more just because I ate some pickled stuff that stood on a shelf in his office, I actually grew to dislike him.
“But everybody else loved the doctor, and I have sometimes thought that perhaps I didn’t quite understand him. He was certainly good and kind to everybody about him.
“Taken all in all, my life was a very happy one, and I not only had a pleasant home, but after a time I got a real jolly old chum, by the name of Towser. When Johnny first brought Towser home he ‘sicked’ him on me, ‘just for fun,’ he said, and the old dog and I had a terrible scrap. But I swiped him a good one under the eye, I tell you, and he treated me fine after that.”
“Scrap? Swiped him? Why, what on earth do you mean, Tommy?” asked Fido.
“Oh! I forgot that you were an aristocrat, my dear Fido. I meant that I had a fight with Towser and struck him under the eye. See?”
“Ah! now I comprehend,” replied Fido.