Montmorency went for that poor cat at the rate of twenty miles an hour; but the cat did not hurry up—did not seem to have grasped the idea that its life was in danger. It trotted quietly on until its would-be assassin was within a yard of it, and then it turned round and sat down in the middle of the road, and looked at Montmorency with a gentle, inquiring expression, that said:
“Yes! You want me?”
Montmorency does not lack pluck; but there was something about the look of that cat that might have chilled the heart of the boldest dog. He stopped abruptly, and looked back at Tom.
Neither spoke; but the conversation that one could imagine was clearly as follows:—
The Cat: “Can I do anything for you?”
Montmorency: “No—no, thanks.”
The Cat: “Don’t you mind speaking, if you really want anything, you know.”
Montmorency (backing down the High Street): “Oh, no—not at all—certainly—don’t you trouble. I—I am afraid I’ve made a mistake. I thought I knew you. Sorry I disturbed you.”
The Cat: “Not at all—quite a pleasure. Sure you don’t want anything, now?”
Montmorency (still backing): “Not at all, thanks—not at all—very kind of you. Good morning.”