The Calico Cat

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  THE CALICO CAT

  BY

  CHARLES MINER THOMPSON

  WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

  F. R. GRUGER

  Logo]

  BOSTON AND NEW YORKHOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANYThe Riverside Press Cambridge1908

  COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY CHARLES MINER THOMPSONALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  _Published October, 1908_

  SECOND IMPRESSION

  TO MY WIFE

  NOTE

  I have to make these acknowledgments: to Mr. Ira Rich Kent for manya helpful suggestion in the framing of the story; to the publishersof "The Youth's Companion," in which the tale first appeared, forpermitting the use of Mr. Gruger's admirable illustrations, and toMr. Francis W. Hight for the very pleasant cat which he has drawnfor the cover.

  THE AUTHOR

  Cat dozing upon the top of the fence.]

  THE CALICO CAT

  I

  Mr. Peaslee looked more complacent than ever. It was Saturday noon,and Solomon had just returned from his usual morning sojourn"up-street." He had taken off his coat, and was washing his face atthe sink, while his wife was "dishing up" the midday meal. There wassalt codfish, soaked fresh, and stewed in milk--"picked up," as thephrase goes; there were baked potatoes and a thin, pale-looking pie.Mrs. Peaslee did not believe in pampering the flesh, and she didbelieve in saving every possible cent.

  "Well," said Mr. Peaslee, as they sat down to this feast, "I guessI've got news for ye."

  His wife gazed at him with interest.

  "Are ye drawed?" she asked.

  "Got the notice from Whitcomb right in my pocket. Grand juror.September term. 'T ain't more'n a week off."

  The _staccato_ utterance was caused by the big mouthfuls of codfishand potato which, between phrases, Mr. Peaslee conveyed to hismouth. It was plain to see that he was greatly pleased with his newdignity.

  "What do they give ye for it?" asked his wife. Solomon should acceptno office which did not bring profit.

  "Two dollars a day and mileage," said Mr. Peaslee, with the emphasisof one who knows he will make a sensation.

  "Mileage? What's that?"

  "Travelin' expenses. State allows ye so much a mile. I get eightcents for goin' to the courthouse."

  "Ye get eight cents every day?" asked his wife, her eyes snapping.She was vague about the duties of a grand juror; maybe he had toearn his two dollars; but she had exact ideas about the trouble ofwalking "up-street." To get eight cents for that was being paid fordoing nothing at all, and she was much astonished at the idea.

  "Likely now, ain't it?" said Mr. Peaslee, with masculine scorn."State don't waste money that way! Mileage's to get ye there an'take ye home again when term's over. You're s'posed to stay round'tween whiles."

  "Humph!" said his wife, disappointed. "They give ye two dollars aday"--she hazarded the shot--"just for settin' round and talkin',don't they? Walkin's considerable more of an effort for most folks."

  "'Settin' round an' talkin'!'" exclaimed Mr. Peaslee, so indignantlythat he stopped eating for a moment, knife and fork upright in hisrigid, scandalized hands, while he gazed at his thin, energetic,shrewish little wife. "'Settin' round and talkin'!' It's mightyimportant work, now I tell ye. I guess there wouldn't be much lawand order if it wa'n't for the grand jury. They don't take none butmen o' jedgment. Takes gumption, I tell ye. Ye have to pay money toget that kind."

  "Well," said his wife, with the air of one who concedes anunimportant point, "anyhow, it's good pay for a man whose time ain'tworth anythin'."

  "Ain't worth anythin'!" exclaimed Mr. Peaslee, in hurt tones. "Now,Sarepty, ye know better'n that. I don't know how they'll get alongwithout me up to the bank. They've got a pretty good idee o' myjedgment 'bout mortgages. They don't pass any without my say so."

  Mrs. Peaslee sniffed. "I've seen ye in the bank window, settin'round with Jim Bartlett and Si Spooner and the rest of 'em. Readin'the paper--that's all _I_ ever see ye doin'. Must be wearin' on ye."

  "Guess ye never heard what was said, did ye? Can't hear 'emthinkin', I guess. They're mighty shreued up to the bank, mightyshreued."

  They had finished their codfish and potato, and Mrs. Peaslee,without giving much attention to her husband's testimony to thebusiness acumen of his banking friends and incidentally of himself,pulled the pale, thin pie toward her and cut it.

  "Pass up your plate," said she.

  When his plate was again in place before him, Mr. Peaslee insertedthe edge of his knife under the upper crust and raised it so that hecould get a better view of its contents; he had his suspicions ofthat pie. What he saw confirmed them; between the crusts was a thin,soft layer of some brown stuff, interspersed with spots of red.

  "Them's the currants we had for supper the night before last, andthat's the dried-apple sauce we had for supper last night," heannounced accurately. "An' ye know how I like a proper pie."

  "I ain't goin' to waste good victuals," said his wife, withdecision.

  There was silence for a moment; Solomon did not dare make anyfurther protest.

  "I suppose," his wife said, picking up again the thread of herthoughts, "ye'll have to wear your go-to-meetin' suit all the timeto the grand jury. I expect they'll be all wore out at the end.That'll take off something. You be careful, now. Settin' round'sawful wearin' on pants. You get a chair with a cushion. And don't yego treatin' cigars. And don't ye go to the hotel for your victuals.I ain't goin' to have ye spendin' your money when ye can just aswell come home. Where ye goin' now?"

  Mr. Peaslee was putting on his coat. "Well," he said, "I kind o'thought I'd step over to Ed'ards's. I thought mebbe he'd beinterested."

  "Goin' to brag, are ye?" was his wife's remorseless comment. "Muchgood it'll do ye, talkin' to that hatchet-face. He ain't so pious ashe looks, if all stories are true."

  But Mr. Peaslee was already outside the door. She raised her voiceshrilly. "You be back, now; them chickens has got to be fed!"

  Mr. Peaslee sought a more sympathetic audience. Being drawn for thegrand jury had greatly flattered his vanity, for it encouraged asecret ambition which he had long held to get into public life.Service on the grand jury might lead to his becoming selectman,perhaps justice of the peace, perhaps town representative fromEllmington--who knew what else? He looked down a pleasant vista ofincreasing office, at the end of which stood the state capitol. Hecould be senator, perhaps! And he began planning his behavior asjuror, the dignified bearing, the well-matured utterances, theshrewd cross-questioning. At the end of his service his neighborswould know him for a man of solid judgment, a "safe" man to beintrusted with weighty affairs.

  Mr. Peaslee was fifty-three years old. He had a comfortable figure,a clean-shaven, round face, and blue eyes much exaggerated for thespectator by the strong lenses of a pair of great spectacles. These,with his gray hair, gave him a benevolence of aspect which somewhatmisrepresented him. As a matter of fact, although good-humored andnot without a still surviving capacity for generous impulse, he wasonly less "near" than his wife. Childishly vain, he bore himselfwith an air of self-satisfaction not without its charm for humorousneighbors. They said that they guessed he thought himself "somepunkins."

  "Some punkins" most people admitted him to be, although how much ofhis money and how much of his shrewdness was really his wife's wasmatter of debate among those who knew him best. At any rate, thePeaslees had made money. A few years before, they had sold theirfat farm "down-river" advantageously, and had bought the dignifiedwhite house in Ellmington in which they have just been seen eating adinner which looks as if they were "house poor." Tha
t they were not;they had thirty thousand dollars in the local bank, partly investedin its stock. In Ellmington Mrs. Peaslee was less lonely, andthrough Mr. Peaslee was an unsuspected director in the bank, and ashrewd user of the chances for profitable investment which herhusband's association with the "bank crowd" opened to her.

  As for Mr. Peaslee, he did not know that he himself was not thebusiness head of the house; and his garden, his chickens, and hispleasant loafing in the bank window kept him contentedly occupied.For, in spite of her shrewish tongue, Mrs. Peaslee had tact enoughto let her husband have the credit for her business acumen. "I ain'tgoin' to let on," she said to herself, "that he ain't just as goodas the rest of 'em." She had her pride.

  As Mr. Peaslee stepped along the straight walk which divided hisneat lawn, and opened the neat gate in his neat white fence, he metSam Barton, the broad-shouldered, good-humored giant who wasconstable of Ellmington. Sam gave him a smiling "How are ye,squire?" as he passed.

  "Guess he's heard," said Mr. Peaslee to himself, much pleased. Yet,as a matter of fact, the greeting was not different from that whichSam had given him daily for the past three years.

  Once on the sidewalk, Mr. Peaslee turned to the right toward thehouse of his neighbor, Mr. Edwards. Edwards was a younger man thanPeaslee, perhaps forty-seven. His business was speculating inlumber and cattle, and in the interest of this he was constantlypassing and re passing the Canadian border, which was not far fromEllmington. In the intervals between his trips he was much at home.He was a stern, silent, secretive man, and simply because he was soclose-mouthed there was much guessing and gossip, not wholly kind,about his affairs.

  Mr. Peaslee found the front door of the Edwards house standing openin the trustful village fashion, and, with neighborly freedom,walked in without ringing. He turned first into the sitting-room,where he found no one, and then into a rear room opening from it.This obviously was a boy's "den." On the table in the centre were acheckerboard, some loose string, a handful of spruce gum, somescattered marbles, a broken jack-knife, a cap, a shot-pouch, an oldbird's nest, a powder-flask, a dog-eared copy of "Caesar'sCommentaries," open, and a Latin dictionary, also open. In a cornerstood a fishing-rod in its cotton case; along the wall were rangedbait-boxes, a fishing-basket, a pair of rubber boots, and a hugewasp's nest. Leaning against the sill of the open window was adouble-barreled shotgun, and on the sill itself were some black,greasy rags and a small bottle of oil.

  Various truths might be inferred from the disarray. One was that Mr.Edwards was generous to his son Jim, and another was that there wasno Mrs. Edwards. Further, it might be easily enough guessed that Jimhad been lured from the study of Latin, in which pretty Miss Ware,who was his teacher at the "Union" school, was trying to interesthim, by the attractive idea of oiling his gun-barrels, and thatsomething still more attractive--perhaps a boy with crossed fingers,for it was not too late for swimming--had lured him from that. Atany rate, Jim was not there.

  Mr. Peaslee, still bent on finding Mr. Edwards, moved toward theopen window. But he could see no signs of life anywhere. None of thehousehold was, however, far away. Jim was in the loft of the barn,where he was carefully examining a barrel of early apples with aview to filling his pockets with the best; the housekeeper hadmerely stepped across the street to borrow some yeast, and Mr.Edwards, who had a headache, was lying down in the chamberimmediately above Jim's den.

  Mr. Peaslee stood and gazed. He eyed in turn the kitchen ell, theshed, and the barn, and then gazed out over the "posy" garden, wherestill bloomed a few late flowers, of which he recognized only the"chiny" asters. He looked toward what he himself would have calledthe "sarce" garden, with its cabbages, turnips, rustlingcorn-stalks, and drying tomato-vines. Seeing no one there, he senthis gaze to the distant rows of apple trees, bright with ripeningfruit. Disappointed, he was about to turn away, but he could notresist taking a complacent, sweeping view of his own adjoiningpossessions.

  There, on the right, ran the long line of his own dwelling,continued by the five-foot board fence separating his garden fromMr. Edwards's. This stood up gauntly white until near the orchard,where it was completely hidden by the high, feathery stalks of theasparagus-bed, by a row of great sunflowers, now heavy and bent withtheir disk-like seed-pods, and by a clump of lilac bushes. As hiseye traveled along the white expanse, he gave a quick start, and hisface clouded with vexation.

  There in the sun, prone upon the top of the fence, dozed the bane ofhis life--_the Calico Cat_.

  Her coat was made up of patches of yellow and white, varied witha black stocking on her right hind leg, and a large, round, blackspot about her right eye, which gave her a peculiarly predatory anddisreputable appearance. Solomon had disliked her at sight. Eversince he had bought the house in Ellmington he had been trying todrive her from the premises, but stay away she would not. Not allthe missiles in existence could convince her that his house was nota desirable place of abode. And she was a constant vexation andannoyance.

  She jumped from the fence plump into the middle of newly plantedflower-beds; she filled the haymow with kittens; she asked all herfriends to the barn, where she gave elaborate musical parties athours more fashionably late than were tolerated in Ellmington.Whenever she had indigestion she ate off the tops of the choicestgreen things that grew in the garden; but when her appetite was goodshe caught and devoured his young chickens.

  Moreover, when at bay she frightened him. Once he had cornered thespitting creature in a stall. Claws out, tail big, fur all on end,she had leaped straight at his head, which he ducked, and, landingsquarely upon it, had steadied herself there for a moment withsharp, protruding claws; thence she had jumped to a feed-box, thenceto a beam, thence to the mow, from the dusky recesses of which shehad glared at him with big, green, menacing eyes. Not since thatexperience, which, in spite of his soft hat, had left certain marksupon his scalp, had he ever attempted to catch her. Instead, he hadborrowed a gun, and a dozen times had fired at her; but although hecounted himself a fair shot, he had never made even a scant bit offur fly from her disreputable back.

  And now he knew she laughed at him. Yes, laughed at him, for she hadmore than human intelligence. There was something demoniac in hercleverness, her immunity from harm, her prodigious energy, hermalevolent mischief, her raillery. Actually, he had grown morbidabout the beast; he had a superstitious feeling that in the end shewould bring him bad luck. How he hated her!

  There she lay, with eyes shut, unsuspecting, comfortable, andbasked in the warm September sunshine. Here at his hand was adouble-barreled shotgun. The chance was too good. This vagrant,this outlaw, this trespasser, this thief--he catalogued hermisdeeds in his mind as he clanged the ramrod down the barrelsto see if the piece was loaded.

  It was not. But ammunition was at hand. He put in a generous chargefrom Jim's powder-flask and rammed it home with a paper wad. Hegrabbed up the shot-pouch and released the proper charge into hishand. He was disappointed; it was bird shot. Scattering as it wouldscatter, it could do _that_ cat no harm. Nevertheless, he poured thepellets into the barrel. As he rammed home the paper wad on top ofthese, his eye caught the marbles lying on the table. He took onethat fitted, and rammed that home also--for luck. He placed a cap,lifted the gun to his shoulder, and fired.

  With a leap which sent her six feet into the air the Calico Catlanded four-square in Mr. Peaslee's chicken-yard, almost on the backof the dignified rooster, which fled with a startled squawk. Shedodged like lightning across the chicken-yard, between cackling andclattering hens, went up the wire-netting walls, leaped to the roof,paused, considered, began to reflect that she had been shot atbefore and to wonder at her own fright, stopped, and, sitting downon the ridgepole, looked inquiringly in Mr. Peaslee's direction. Shewas, of course, entirely unharmed.

  But other matters were claiming Mr. Peaslee's attention. Outfrom behind the screen formed by the asparagus plumes, thecurrant-bushes, the sunflowers, and the lilacs, all of whichgrew not so far from the spot on the fence where the CalicoCat had been sit
ting, fell a man!

  Solomon had a mere glimpse. Standing behind taller bushes, thestranger had fallen behind lower ones, and only while his fallingfigure was describing the narrow segment of a circle had he beenvisible.

  But the glimpse was enough. Mr. Peaslee's jaw dropped, his faceturned white. But the next moment he gave a great sigh of relief. Hesaw the man rise and slip into cover of the bushes, and so disappearthrough the orchard. He had not, then, killed the fellow!

  Relieved of that fear, he thought of himself. What would people saywere he charged with firing at a man--he, a respectable citizen, adirector in the bank, a grand juror? They must not know!

  He silently laid the gun back against the window-sill, turned withinfinite care, and tiptoed quickly back into the sitting-room, intothe hall, into the street.

  Not a soul was visible. Nevertheless, such was Mr. Peaslee'sagitation, so strongly did he feel the need of silence, that,placing a shaking hand upon the fence to steady himself, he tiptoedalong the sidewalk all the way to his own house. There the fear ofhis wife struck him. He was in no condition to meet that sharp-eyed,quick-tongued lady!

  He softly entered the front door and penetrated to the dark parlor,where, as no one would ever enter it except for a funeral or awedding, he felt safe from intrusion. There he sank down upon theslippery horsehair lounge, and, staring helplessly at the severeportrait of Mrs. Peaslee, done by a lugubrious artist in crayon,wiped the sweat from his forehead and tried to collect his scatteredfaculties.

  "Whew!" he breathed. "Whew!"