My poor mother found this to interfere with her after-dinner nap, and no wonder; for if a cohort of ghosts had been “shrieking and squealing,” as Calpurnia puts it, in our back garden, or it had been fitted up as a creche for a nursery of goblin infants in the agonies of teething, the noise could not possibly have been more unearthly.

We sought for some means of getting rid of the nuisance:  there was poison, of course; but we thought it would have an invidious appearance, and even lead to legal difficulties, if each dawn were to discover an assortment of cats expiring in hideous convulsions in various parts of the same garden.

Firearms too were open to objection, and would scarcely assist my mother’s slumbers; so for some time we were at a loss for a remedy.  At last, one day, walking down the Strand, I chanced to see (in an evil hour) what struck me as the very thing:  it was an air-gun of superior construction, displayed in a gunsmith’s window.  I went in at once, purchased it, and took it home in triumph; it would be noiseless, and would reduce the local average of cats without scandal,—­one or two examples,—­and feline fashion would soon migrate to a more secluded spot.

I lost no time in putting this to the proof.  That same evening I lay in wait after dusk at the study window, protecting my mother’s repose.  As soon as I heard the long-drawn wail, the preliminary sputter, and the wild stampede that followed, I let fly in the direction of the sound.  I suppose I must have something of the national sporting instinct in me, for my blood was tingling with excitement; but the feline constitution assimilates lead without serious inconvenience, and I began to fear that no trophy would remain to bear witness to my marksmanship.

But all at once I made out a dark, indistinct form slinking in from behind the bushes.  I waited till it crossed a belt of light which streamed from the back kitchen below me, and then I took careful aim and pulled the trigger.

This time at least I had not failed; there was a smothered yell, a rustle, and then silence again.  I ran out with the calm pride of a successful revenge to bring in the body of my victim, and I found underneath a laurel no predatory tom-cat, but (as the discerning reader will no doubt have foreseen long since) the quivering carcass of the colonel’s black poodle!

I intend to set down here the exact unvarnished truth, and I confess that at first, when I knew what I had done, I was not sorry.  I was quite innocent of any intention of doing it, but I felt no regret.  I even laughed—­madman that I was—­at the thought that there was the end of Bingo, at all events; that impediment was removed; my weary task of conciliation was over for ever!