“Cats! do you call them?  Why, they are Christians in everything except the number of legs.”

“They certainly are,” I responded, “wonderfully cunning little animals, and it is not by their moral and religious instincts alone that they are so closely linked to man; the marvellous ability they display in taking care of ‘number one’ is worthy of the human race itself.  Some friends of mine had a cat, a big black Tom:  they have got half of him still.  They had reared him from a kitten, and, in their homely, undemonstrative way, they liked him.  There was nothing, however, approaching passion on either side.

“One day a Chinchilla came to live in the neighbourhood, under the charge of an elderly spinster, and the two cats met at a garden wall party.

“‘What sort of diggings have you got?’ asked the Chinchilla.

“‘Oh, pretty fair.’

“‘Nice people?’

“‘Yes, nice enough—­as people go.’

“‘Pretty willing?  Look after you well, and all that sort of thing?’

“‘Yes—­oh yes.  I’ve no fault to find with them.’

“‘What’s the victuals like?’

“’Oh, the usual thing, you know, bones and scraps, and a bit of dog-biscuit now and then for a change.’

“‘Bones and dog-biscuits!  Do you mean to say you eat bones?’

“’Yes, when I can get ’em.  Why, what’s wrong about them?’

“’Shade of Egyptian Isis, bones and dog-biscuits!  Don’t you ever get any spring chickens, or a sardine, or a lamb cutlet?’

“‘Chickens!  Sardines!  What are you talking about?  What are sardines?’

“’What are sardines!  Oh, my dear child (the Chinchilla was a lady cat, and always called gentlemen friends a little older than herself ’dear child’), these people of yours are treating you just shamefully.  Come, sit down and tell me all about it.  What do they give you to sleep on?’

“‘The floor.’

“‘I thought so; and skim milk and water to drink, I suppose?’

“‘It is a bit thin.’

“’I can quite imagine it.  You must leave these people, my dear, at once.’

“‘But where am I to go to?’

“‘Anywhere.’

“‘But who’ll take me in?’

“’Anybody, if you go the right way to work.  How many times do you think I’ve changed my people?  Seven!—­and bettered myself on each occasion.  Why, do you know where I was born?  In a pig-sty.  There were three of us, mother and I and my little brother.  Mother would leave us every evening, returning generally just as it was getting light.  One morning she did not come back.  We waited and waited, but the day passed on and she did not return, and we grew hungrier and hungrier, and at last we lay down, side by side, and cried ourselves to sleep.

“’In the evening, peeping through a hole in the door, we saw her coming across the field.  She was crawling very slowly, with her body close down against the ground.  We called to her, and she answered with a low “crroo”; but she did not hasten her pace.