“Come to me, pussy; Antonio loves a cat.”
Muffie, for that was her name, walked up to the place where sat the droll little man. She walked up singing, tail in air. But when she looked up into Antonio’s face she behaved in a most extraordinary manner. For just then the glass eye gave a jerk and a jump, and appeared to fix poor pussy. She lifted up one leg, her hair rose, her tail became a brush, and with her head to one side, she gave vent to as lugubrious and melancholy a wail as surely ever emanated from the larynx and lungs of a domestic cat.
“Cauter—a—wa—ow—ow—ow!”
Why, the old wooden walls of the windmill re-echoed back the sound.
“Muffie!” cried Barclay, “I’m ashamed of you. Go and shake hands with the gentleman immediately.”
Down went pussie’s leg, down went the hair, and she approached Antonio, and in the most dignified and lady-like way gave him a paw.
Antonio smoothed her tenderly. He even lifted her up and kissed her shoulder, and in two minutes’ time Muffie was nestling on his knee, purring away like a turtle-dove.
Now, having kept cats since I was able to crawl, I know that they are very good judges of character.
Antonio himself seemed exceedingly well pleased at the friendliness exhibited to him by this queer pussy, and did not hesitate to tell Barclay so.
“And now, dearie,” said the little man, with a glance upwards at the windmill, “spring is coming, isn’t it?”