“And sure, a fox might be happy there, if it wasn’t for the highway near by,” said Bridget enthusiastically, “And what’s the baste that lives in this little wild wood home, officer?”
The sergeant was holding back some branches so that they might see more plainly a tiny wooden kennel heaped high with dead leaves.
“It’s a king that lives here,” he said; and he lifted toward his auditors his face that was red from stooping over the kennel.
“You didn’t know, French boy,” and he addressed Eugene, “that there was a sovereign over all this park land that rules as absolutely as your emperor did.”
“Is it possible that you speak of a cat?” said the boy contemptuously.
“Of nothing more nor less, of King Boozy, monarch of this park, because he has got character enough to rule over the other twenty cats that live here.”
Little Virgie was charmed. Before Eugene could reply, she dropped on her hands and knees, and crawled in beside the sergeant. “Oh, the little sweet housie!” she cried, patting the tiny dwelling with both hands. “Who made it, mister? does the pussy sleep in it?”
“Yes, little one,” said the sergeant. “A gentleman connected with one of the Boston theatres had this kennel made for the king of the park, who always sleeps in it. His chum occupies that barrel over there.”
“And is it another cat that is his chum?” asked Bridget.
“Yes,” replied the sergeant. “There is only one cat in the park that the king will have to live with him; and that is his chum, Squirrel, and he has to mind his p’s and q’s, I tell you, or Boozy would put him out. What do you think of this for a cat’s home, young sir?” and he addressed Eugene.