"COME BACK, PETER. Lost, stolen, strayed, or poisoned, a white and black cat called Peter, who left his friends at—on Monday afternoon last. Round his neck he wore a blue ribbon with the word PETER embroidered upon it in red silk. Before retiring to rest he always says his prayers. Dead or alive, a reward of Two Pounds is offered to any one who will restore him to his mourning friends."
I little knew what I was bringing on my devoted head. I had been troubled enough before with dying cats, but now they were all alive. Cats were brought to me in baskets, in boxes, in arms; Manx cats and cats whose tails were missing for other than hereditary reasons; lame cats, blind cats, cats with one eye, and cats who squinted. Never before had I seen such an extraordinary collection. My whole time was now taken up in interviewing callers with cats.
If the boys were bad before, they were a thousand times worse now. Here is one example out of a score. He was a boy known as Pop, who carried the laundry baskets.
"'Ave yer found yer cat yet?"
"No, we haven't."
"Did yer say it was a yaller 'un?"
"No, I didn't."
"What did I say, Hop?" continued Pop, triumphantly turning to a one-legged friend who swept a crossing close by.
"Yer said, Pop, as it was a tortus," murmured the bashful Hop, who had sheltered himself behind Pop.
"A tortus, that's it. A tortus, and Hop and I's found it, sir. We've got it here."