“Hang that cat!” cried the old gentleman angrily, “it’ll be the death o’ me yet;” and seizing the first thing that came to hand, which happened to be the loaf of bread, discharged it with such violence, and with so correct an aim, that it knocked, not only the cat, but the teapot and sugar-bowl also, off the table.
“O dear papa!” exclaimed Kate.
“Really, my dear,” cried Mr Kennedy, half angry and half ashamed, “we must get rid of that brute immediately. It has scarcely been a week here, and it has done more mischief already than a score of ordinary cats would have done in a twelvemonth.”
“But then, the mice, papa—”
“Well, but—but—oh, hang the mice!”
“Yes; but how are we to catch them?” said Kate.
At this moment the cook, who had heard the sound of breaking crockery, and judged it expedient that he should be present, opened the door.
“How now, rascal!” exclaimed his master, striding up to him. “Did I ring for you, eh?”
“No, sir; but—”
“But! eh, but! no more ‘buts,’ you scoundrel, else I’ll—”