and played terrible havoc among the poor fishes. It was not so much what he ate that the keepers grudged; but he was in the constant habit of carrying away large fish to hide for future use; and as he generally forgot where he had put them, he still went on hiding more. Sometimes, in taking a walk through the wood, you would find yourself suddenly sprawling on all fours, having trampled on one of Gibbey’s salmon. Or you are doing a little bit of gardening, and come upon a grave, and turn up what at first sight appears a newly-born infant rolled in a rag. Only one of Gibbey’s salmon. What is this in the horse’s trough? Has the horse conceived? Nay, the poor brute has eaten all his oats, but he could not stomach—one of Gibbey’s salmon. Something has been making its presence felt in your bed-room for days. You dream of drains and typhoid fever, and you sprinkle Rimmell’s toilet vinegar and burn pastiles in vain. Even the immortal Condy fails to lay the dread thing. At last you peep below the bed, and with the tongs pull out—what?—only one of Gibbey’s salmon.
For nine long years this cat managed to evade the law, and escape the itching fingers of the keepers. At last, however, poor Gilbert was trapped and slain.
One day, when out shooting, I met a large white cat. He was coming trotting along the foot-path, and wore about his neck what I took to be a very tasteful thing in cravats. It was of a dark colour, and he held one end of it in his mouth in a meditative sort of way. I was going to ask this cat if he felt afraid of catching cold; but he appeared to shun me, took another direction, and entered the door of a small cottage, still wearing the mysterious cravat, and still keeping one end of it thoughtfully in his mouth, so that I felt quite puzzled, and laid down my gun to scratch my head. I hate to be done. Five minutes afterwards I was at the cottage door. A pleasant little woman answered my knock.
“Might I trouble you for a glass of water?”
“Certainly, sir; but would you not come in, and have a drink of nice sweet whey?”
I would. Tom was singing on the hearth, but he had laid aside the wrap—it was nowhere to be seen.
“That’s a fine cat you’ve got,” said I, when I had finished my whey.
“He is, sir; everybody admires our Tom.”
“He has caught cold, I think?”
“Dear me! no, sir.”