“At the end of a fortnight, the cat, finding he had not, after all, bettered himself, came back.  The family were so surprised that at first they could not be sure whether he was flesh and blood, or a spirit come to comfort them.  After watching him eat half a pound of raw steak, they decided he was material, and caught him up and hugged him to their bosoms.  For a week they over-fed him and made much of him.  Then, the excitement cooling, he found himself dropping back into his old position, and didn’t like it, and went next door again.

“The next door people had also missed him, and they likewise greeted his return with extravagant ebullitions of joy.  This gave the cat an idea.  He saw that his game was to play the two families off one against the other; which he did.  He spent an alternate fortnight with each, and lived like a fighting cock.  His return was always greeted with enthusiasm, and every means were adopted to induce him to stay.  His little whims were carefully studied, his favourite dishes kept in constant readiness.

“The destination of his goings leaked out at length, and then the two families quarrelled about him over the fence.  My friend accused the newspaper man of having lured him away.  The newspaper man retorted that the poor creature had come to his door wet and starving, and added that he would be ashamed to keep an animal merely to ill-treat it.  They have a quarrel about him twice a week on the average.  It will probably come to blows one of these days.”

Jephson appeared much surprised by this story.  He remained thoughtful and silent.  I asked him if he would like to hear any more, and as he offered no active opposition I went on. (Maybe he was asleep; that idea did not occur to me at the time.)

I told him of my grandmother’s cat, who, after living a blameless life for upwards of eleven years, and bringing up a family of something like sixty-six, not counting those that died in infancy and the water-butt, took to drink in her old age, and was run over while in a state of intoxication (oh, the justice of it! ) by a brewer’s dray.  I have read in temperance tracts that no dumb animal will touch a drop of alcoholic liquor.  My advice is, if you wish to keep them respectable, don’t give them a chance to get at it.  I knew a pony—­But never mind him; we are talking about my grandmother’s cat.

A leaky beer-tap was the cause of her downfall.  A saucer used to be placed underneath it to catch the drippings.  One day the cat, coming in thirsty, and finding nothing else to drink, lapped up a little, liked it, and lapped a little more, went away for half an hour, and came back and finished the saucerful.  Then sat down beside it, and waited for it to fill again.

From that day till the hour she died, I don’t believe that cat was ever once quite sober.  Her days she passed in a drunken stupor before the kitchen fire.  Her nights she spent in the beer cellar.