The number of cats that Thomas Henry contrived to dispose of also surprised me. Quite a massacre of cats seemed to be in progress.
One evening, going into the kitchen, for I made it a practice now to visit the kitchen each evening, to inspect the daily consignment of dead cats, I found, among others, a curiously marked tortoiseshell cat, lying on the table.
“That cat’s worth half a sovereign,” said the owner, who was standing by, drinking beer.
I took up the animal, and examined it.
“Your cat killed him yesterday,” continued the man. “It’s a burning shame.”
“My cat has killed him three times,” I replied. “He was killed on Saturday as Mrs. Hedger’s cat; on Monday he was killed for Mrs. Myers. I was not quite positive on Monday; but I had my suspicions, and I made notes. Now I recognise him. You take my advice, and bury him before he breeds a fever. I don’t care how many lives a cat has got; I only pay for one.”
We gave Thomas Henry every chance to reform; but he only went from bad to worse, and added poaching and chicken-stalking to his other crimes, and I grew tired of paying for his vices.
I consulted the gardener, and the gardener said he had known cats taken that way before.
“Do you know of any cure for it?” I asked.
“Well, sir,” replied the gardener, “I have heard as how a dose of brickbat and pond is a good thing in a general way.”