The tall, bony battery commander stood looking down searchingly at the savage, coal-black beast as it crouched glaring at him with its wicked, yellow-green eyes.... Suddenly with a ferocious scowl he thrust his long, heavy riding-boot right in the cat’s face.
But neither the scowl nor the boot frightened Black: a claw transfixed the patent leather, while sharp fangs bit into the uppers....
“Damn it, if he isn’t a soldier!” exclaimed the commander—and the cat’s fortune was made.
Living among these strong, healthy men Black performed prodigies of valour....
He wasn’t satisfied with catching one rat at a time—but usually managed one with each claw-bunch. Indeed, occasionally when someone took the trouble to shift the oat-bin for him, he had been know to secure a third with his jaws. He became less wild after a time, and would even allow himself to be stroked and picked up—and here, where the idea of madness was unknown, he was christened anew: they called him “Fizz.”
“TERROR” TURNS HOUSE-CAT
At the cross-roads some way from the village lived the midwife.
She was a slim, fair person, with large eyes and thick, curly hair.
She was not so fearfully old; but neither was she so fearfully young; in short, she was a lady in the prime of life.