It wouldn’t exactly suit Mary’s book to have pussy drowned. It would seriously interfere with those nice little suppers, she is in the habit of having with Matilda Jane.
“Sarah, we’ll have the remains of that cold lamb for supper.”
“Oh! dear me, ma’am; I forgot to tell you, the cat has eaten every bit of it. Can open the pantry-door, just like you or I, ma’am.”
I should think it could; the cat in this case being an enormous blue Tom tabby, with a stripe round one forearm, and a belt about his waist, and X 99 on the collar of his coat.
The following is the story of a real feline Jack Sheppard, I have no excuse to offer for this cat; I can only say that if he was a thief, he was a swell at it.
In a sweet little village not far from the famous old town of bonnie Dundee, lived, and I believe still lives, Peter McFarlane, a shoemaker, and his wife Tibbie; two as decent old bodies as you would see in all broad Scotland. They were honest and industrious, and, as a rule, agreed, or as the folks say, they both “said one way,” except when Peter took a dram, when, it must be confessed, the ashes did at times find their way up the chimney along with the smoke. They had no family but one,—a cat. A fine gentlemanly fellow he was too; dressed in the blackest of fur, and faultless to a degree, barring that he was the biggest thief ever known in the village, or whole country-side. Every one complained of Tom; and, as he got older, his delinquencies were ever on the increase. Allowing thieving to be a virtue among cats of his class, Tom was a saint, and ripe for glory long ago. The butcher, do what he liked, could not save his kidneys,—it was remarkable that Tom never touched the sausages,—he was always content with kidneys, although if none were to be had, to pussy’s honour be it said, he did not despise a lump of steak or even a nice lamb chop. Tom was a regular customer at the fish-monger’s; his weakness here being for Loch Fyne herrings,—they were handy; but he delighted also in the centre cut of a salmon, and in half-pound sea-trout. It has even been said, that Tom did not share his custom equally among the shop-keepers, spending too much of his time at the fish-monger’s counter; but, as his biographer, I must defend his name from any such allegation. Although it must be admitted he never paid ready-money, still he was never too proud to carry away his purchase. Tom used to enter the poor people’s houses about dinner-time, watch his chance, and purloin the meat from under their very noses. Once he lifted the lid from a broth-pot, and decamped with the boiling chicken. This cat was never known to drink water when he could find a milk-pan; nor milk, either, if the cream-jug was at all handy. He was even accused of having sucked the cows; and when hard pressed with hunger, he did not despise a piece of cheese or a tallow candle from the grocer’s round the corner. He never troubled himself catching mice,—chickens came handier; and tame pigeons he found were more satisfying than sparrows. Tom could break in or out of any place, climb anything, and jump—the neighbours all said—“the d——l’s height;” I don’t know how tall that gentleman is at Dundee, but he must be over twenty feet, for Tom could do that easily, and alight on his pumps. At long-last the cat became so notorious, and the outcry against him so loud and universal, that the shoemaker and Tibbie, yielding to the entreaties of the villagers, resolved to have him drowned.
On a cold winter’s night, then, honest Peter and three of the neighbours might have been seen—had there been light enough to see them—trudging along towards the pier, with the unhappy but virtuous Tom in a sack. Arrived at the place of execution, a consultation was held as to how the job should be done. There wasn’t a stone to be had, and Peter said he wasn’t going to lose his sack; it was bad enough to lose the cat; so it was resolved to take Tom out and swing him clear off into the water. More easily said than done. Tom was no sooner out of the bag, than by a successful application of tooth and nail, he wriggled himself free, and in a moment more was lost in the darkness. Peter scratched his head, the neighbours scratched their three heads, and they all felt funny and foolish. They determined however not to make laughing-stocks of themselves, so they returned to Peter’s house with the joyful intelligence, that Tom was a cat of the past.
Here were the fishwife and the milkwife, and the grocer and his wife, and the butcher—who hadn’t a wife, all assembled to hear the good news; and it was unanimously resolved to celebrate the event by making a night of it; and, although the people of Dundee and round-about are generally glad of any excuse to make a night of it, still it must be admitted that the present occasion urgently called for “cakes and whuskey.” So the fishwife brought salmon, the milkwife brought milk, the butcher brought steak, and the grocer whiskey galore; Tibbie with her best new mutch did the cooking, and they all sat down to eat and to drink and be merry. No Indian villagers, just released from the dominion of a man-eating tiger, could have felt jollier than did those good folks at the thoughts of thieving Tom’s demise.
“May the deil gang wi’ him,” was one of the toasts to Tom’s memory.
“And a’ the ill-weather,” was another.