His voice, however, was superb. He was the Caruso of the block. His range was tremendous, with great power and fine quality all the way. His upper register especially was quite wonderful. There were tenor notes in Mike's voice on still summer nights that could be heard for six blocks in all directions. We have no doubt that a greater number of useful articles, such as boots, hairbrushes, perfume bottles, and shaving mugs, were thrown at Mike than at any other ten cats in that end of town.
But he wasn't stuck up about it. He remained the same simple, unassuming fellow—no professional airs whatever, and always willing to sing. He loved his art, that's all.
Mike is gone, however. He hasn't turned up for a week, and we write this article in the hope that if any reader sees a black Tom with a red bow and a brass bell, the reader will please destroy him in some speedy and sure way. Poor Mike, we may never look upon his like again—such is our heartfelt prayer!
The last time we saw Mike was about two a.m.—we had been detained at the office. As we neared the house, mentally debating whether or not we would take off our boots downstairs—the last time we did so we absent-mindedly hung them on the hat-rack—we noticed a nice grey tabby stepping daintily across the deserted street ahead of us.
It had just occurred to us that this was no hour for a well-brought-up cat to be strolling around, when we noticed Mike pussy-footing along about three yards behind—no doubt with some chivalrous intention of seeing that she got home all right. He was wearing his bell and an expression of concentrated interest.
And right behind Mike came the biggest and dingiest tomcat we have ever seen. With a few dabs of paint he would have made a very fair panther; and he had much the same glare in his eye. It seemed to bode ill for Mike, and we felt vague stirrings of pity, which a moment's reflection caused us sternly to repress. We decided to let justice take its course.
We have never seen Mike since.
DOGS
Dogs