“I will so,” said Shawn. “I had a cat one time and it used to have kittens every two months.”
The Philosopher’s voice arose:
“If there was any periodicity about these migrations one could understand them. Birds, for example, migrate from their homes in the late autumn and seek abroad the sustenance and warmth which the winter would withhold if they remained in their native lands. The salmon also, a dignified fish with a pink skin, emigrates from the Atlantic Ocean, and betakes himself inland to the streams and lakes, where he recuperates for a season, and is often surprised by net, angle, or spear—”
“Cut in now, Shawn,” said the sergeant anxiously.
Shawn began to gabble with amazing speed and in a mighty voice:
“Cats sometimes eat their kittens, and sometimes they don’t. A cat that eats its kittens is a heartless brute. I knew a cat used to eat its kittens—it had four legs and a long tail, and it used to get the head-staggers every time it had eaten its kittens. I killed it myself one day with a hammer for I couldn’t stand the smell it made, so I couldn’t—”
“Shawn,” said the sergeant, “can’t you talk about something else besides cats and dogs?”
“Sure, I don’t know what to talk about,” said Shawn. “I’m sweating this minute trying to please you, so I arm. If you’ll tell me what to talk about I’ll do my endeavours.”
“You’re a fool,” said the sergeant sorrowfully; “you’ll never make a constable. I’m thinking that I would sooner listen to the man himself than to you. Have you got a good hold of him now?”
“I have so,” said Shawn.