"Don't strangle it—don't strangle it!" cried the hag, with unfeigned anxiety—for the only thing she loved in the world was her huge black cat.
"Stand back, old witch!" exclaimed Tidkins: "this beast is capable of tearing you to pieces."
And in spite of the violent pressure he maintained with his fingers upon its throat, the animal struggled fearfully.
"They say the cussed wessel has nine lives," observed Mr. Banks, dolefully, as he beheld the tattered state of his linen and smarted with the pain of the cat's scratches upon his chest.
"Don't kill it, I say!" again screamed the hag: "it will be good with me—it will be good with me."
"Too late to intercede," said the Resurrection Man, coolly, as he literally wrung the cat's neck: then he tossed the carcass from him upon the stairs.
"Poor thing!" murmured the old woman: "poor thing! I will bury it decently in the yard to-morrow morning."
And she actually wiped away a tear,—she who felt no pity, no compunction, no sympathy in favour of a human soul!
"She'll bury it, will she?" muttered Banks, endeavouring to smooth his linen: "on economic principles, I suppose."
The trio then entered the parlour: but before she could compose herself to attend to business, the old hag was compelled to have recourse to her gin; and fortunately there was some in her bottle. Her two companions refreshed themselves in a similar manner; and Tidkins then said, "Now for the proofs of all you've said in your history."