Now, I’ll jest give you a sample. We live in a part where there’s cats enough to make the fortunes of five hundred millions o’ Dick Whittingtons. The place is alive with ’em; scratching up your bits of gardens; sneaking in at your back doors, and stealing; making Hyde Parks and Kensington Gardens of the tops o’ your wash-houses and tiles of your roof; and howling—howling—why, no mortal pusson would believe how them cats can howl. They seem to give the whole o’ their minds to it, and try it one against another, to see who’s got the loudest voice, and setting up such a concert as makes the old women cry, “Drat the cats.” But that ain’t no good: they don’t mind being dratted, not a bit of it; and if you go out into the back garden, and shy bricks, why, they only swear at you—awful.
Well, you see, we live in a very catty part, and it seems to me as if the beasts warn’t fed enough, and do it out of spite, for no sooner does it get dark, than out they come, tunes their pipes, and then you can hear ’em. No matter where you are, back or front, there they are, a-going it, like hooroar, till I’m blest if it ain’t half enough to drive you mad. Why, there’s one old black Tom, as you can hear a mile off, and I wouldn’t bet as you couldn’t hear him two, for he’s got a werry peculiar voice of his own. I think it’s what musical people calls a tenner, though it might be a hundreder for the noise it makes.
He’s an artful old brute, though, is that Tom; and I’ve tried to come round him scores of times, but it ain’t no use, for he won’t believe in me. I’ve taken out saucers of milk and bits of fish, all got ready on purpose for my gentleman, but do you think he’d come? No, thank you. And as soon as ever he ketches sight of me, he shunts, he does, and goes off like an express train in front of a runaway engine.
But I was going to tell you about my wife. Now, nex’ Monday’s a fortni’t since I come home werry tired and worn out—for porter’s work at a big terminus at Christmas ain’t easy, I can tell you; while, when we are off night dootey, it’s only natural as one should like a quiet night’s rest, which ain’t much to ask for, now is it, even if a man does only get a pound a week, and a sixpence now and then, as swells make a mistake, and give you through not having read the notice up on the walls about instant dismissal, and all that? Well, tired out regularly, and ready to sleep through anything a’most, I goes to bed, and as I lays down I thinks to myself—
You may howl away, my beauties, to-night, for I can sleep through anything.
And really I thought I could, but I suppose it was through having a hyster barrel on my mind, that I couldn’t go off directly—for there was one missing, and a fish hamper, both on ’em. No doubt, having been stolen by some one in the crowd on the platform; while I got the blame; and I put it to you, now, could a railway porter, having a pound a week, and Sunday dooty in his turn, have his eyes every wheres at once?
So I didn’t go to sleep right off, but some one else did, and there, just outside the window, if one o’ them cats didn’t begin.
“Wow-w-w, wow-w-w, wow-w-w, meyow-w-w,” and all such a pretty tune, finished off with a long low swear at the end.
I stood it for ten minutes good, turning first one side, and then another, pulling the clothes over my ear, and at last ramming my head right under, with my fingers stuck in my ears, but there, Lor’ bless you, that was no good, for I’ll warrant the song of one of them pretty, soft, furry nightingales to go through anything, and at last I finds that I was only smothering myself for nowt, and I puts my head out of the clothes again, and give a great sigh.
“Me-ow-ow-ow,” says my friend on the tiles.