Tales of St. Austin's

by P. G. Wodehouse

  [11]

  'THE TABBY TERROR'

  The struggle between Prater's cat and Prater's cat's conscience wasshort, and ended in the hollowest of victories for the former. Theconscience really had no sort of chance from the beginning. It was weakby nature and flabby from long want of exercise, while the cat was inexcellent training, and was, moreover, backed up by a strongtemptation. It pocketed the stakes, which consisted of most of thecontents of a tin of sardines, and left unostentatiously by the window.When Smith came in after football, and found the remains, he wassurprised, and even pained. When Montgomery entered soon afterwards, hequestioned him on the subject.

  'I say, have you been having a sort of preliminary canter with thebanquet?'

  'No,' said Montgomery. 'Why?'

  'Somebody has,' said Smith, exhibiting the empty tin. 'Doesn't seem tohave had such a bad appetite, either.'

  'This reminds me of the story of the great bear, the medium bear, andthe little ditto,' observed Montgomery, who was apt at an analogy. 'Youmay remember that when the great bear found his porridge tampered with,he--'

  At this point Shawyer entered. He had been bidden to the feast, and wasfeeling ready for it.

  'Hullo, tea ready?' he asked.

  Smith displayed the sardine tin in much the same manner as the conjurershows a pack of cards when he entreats you to choose one, and rememberthe number.

  'You haven't finished already, surely? Why, it's only just five.'

  'We haven't even begun,' said Smith. 'That's just the difficulty. Thequestion is, who has been on the raid in here?'

  'No human being has done this horrid thing,' said Montgomery. He alwaysliked to introduce a Holmes-Watsonian touch into the conversation. 'Inthe first place, the door was locked, wasn't it, Smith?'

  'By Jove, so it was. Then how on earth--?'

  'Through the window, of course. The cat, equally of course. I shouldlike a private word with that cat.'

  'I suppose it must have been.'

  'Of course it was. Apart from the merely circumstantial evidence, whichis strong enough to hang it off its own bat, we have absolute proof ofits guilt. Just cast your eye over that butter. You follow me, Watson?'

  The butter was submitted to inspection. In the very centre of it therewas a footprint.

  '_I_ traced his little footprints in the butter,' said Montgomery.'Now, is that the mark of a human foot?'

  The jury brought in a unanimous verdict of guilty against the missinganimal, and over a sorrowful cup of tea, eked out with bread andjam--butter appeared to be unpopular--discussed the matter in all itsbearings. The cat had not been an inmate of Prater's House for a verylong time, and up till now what depredation it had committed had beenconfined to the official larder. Now, however, it had evidently got itshand in, and was about to commence operations upon a more extensivescale. The Tabby Terror had begun. Where would it end? The generalopinion was that something would have to be done about it. No oneseemed to know exactly what to do. Montgomery spoke darkly of bricks,bits of string, and horse-ponds. Smith rolled the word 'rat-poison'luxuriously round his tongue. Shawyer, who was something of an experton the range, babbled of air-guns.

  At tea on the following evening the first really serious engagement ofthe campaign took place. The cat strolled into the tea-room in thepatronizing way characteristic of his kind, but was heavily shelledwith lump-sugar, and beat a rapid retreat. That was the signal for theoutbreak of serious hostilities. From that moment its paw was againstevery man, and the tale of the things it stole is too terrible torelate in detail. It scored all along the line. Like Death in the poem,it knocked at the doors of the highest and the lowest alike. Or rather,it did not exactly knock. It came in without knocking. The palace ofthe prefect and the hovel of the fag suffered equally. Trentham, thehead of the House, lost sausages to an incredible amount one evening,and the next day Ripton, of the Lower Third, was robbed of his one ewelamb in the shape of half a tin of anchovy paste. Panic reigned.

  It was after this matter of the sausages that a luminous idea occurredto Trentham. He had been laid up with a slight football accident, andhis family, reading between the lines of his written statement that he'had got crocked at footer, nothing much, only (rather a nuisance)might do him out of the House-matches', a notification of mortalinjuries, and seeming to hear a death-rattle through the words 'feltrather chippy yesterday', had come down _en masse_ to investigate._En masse,_ that is to say, with the exception of his father, whosaid he was too busy, but felt sure it was nothing serious. ('Why, whenI was a boy, my dear, I used to think nothing of an occasional tumble.There's nothing the matter with Dick. Why, etc., etc.')

  Trentham's sister was his first visitor.

  'I say,' said he, when he had satisfied her on the subject of hishealth, 'would you like to do me a good turn?'

  She intimated that she would be delighted, and asked for details.

  _'Buy the beak's cat,'_ hissed Trentham, in a hoarse whisper.

  'Dick, it _was_ your leg that you hurt, wasn't it? Not--not yourhead?' she replied. 'I mean--'

  'No, I really mean it. Why can't you? It's a perfectly simple thing todo.'

  'But what _is_ a beak? And why should I buy its cat?'

  'A beak's a master. Surely you know that. You see, Prater's got a catlately, and the beast strolls in and raids the studies. Got round overhalf a pound of prime sausages in here the other night, and he's alwaysbagging things everywhere. You'd be doing everyone a kindness if youwould take him on. He'll get lynched some day if you don't. Besides,you want a cat for your new house, surely. Keep down the mice, and thatsort of thing, you know. This animal's a demon for mice.' This was atelling argument. Trentham's sister had lately been married, and shecertainly had had some idea of investing in a cat to adorn her home.'As for beetles,' continued the invalid, pushing home his advantage,'they simply daren't come out of their lairs for fear of him.'

  'If he eats beetles,' objected his sister, 'he can't have a very goodcoat.'

  'He doesn't eat them. Just squashes them, you know, like a policeman.He's a decent enough beast as far as looks go.'

  'But if he steals things--'

  'No, don't you see, he only does that here, because the Praters don'tinterfere with him and don't let us do anything to him. He won't trythat sort of thing on with you. If he does, get somebody to hit himover the head with a boot-jack or something. He'll soon drop it then.You might as well, you know. The House'll simply black your boots ifyou do.'

  'But would Mr Prater let me have the cat?'

  'Try him, anyhow. Pitch it fairly warm, you know. Only cat you everloved, and that sort of thing.'

  'Very well. I'll try.'

  'Thanks, awfully. And, I say, you might just look in here on your wayout and report.'

  Mrs James Williamson, nee Miss Trentham, made her way dutifully to theMerevale's part of the House. Mrs Prater had expressed a hope that shewould have some tea before catching her train. With tea it is usual tohave milk, and with milk it is usual, if there is a cat in the house,to have feline society. Captain Kettle, which was the name thoughtsuitable to this cat by his godfathers and godmothers, was on handearly. As he stood there pawing the mat impatiently, and mewing in aminor key, Mrs Williamson felt that here was the cat for her. Hecertainly was good to look upon. His black heart was hidden by a sleekcoat of tabby fur, which rendered stroking a luxury. His scheming brainwas out of sight in a shapely head.

  'Oh, what a lovely cat!' said Mrs Williamson.

  'Yes, isn't he,' agreed Mrs Prater. 'We are very proud of him.'

  'Such a beautiful coat!'

  'And such a sweet purr!'

  'He looks so intelligent. Has he any tricks?'

  Had he any tricks! Why, Mrs Williamson, he could do everything exceptspeak. Captain Kettle, you bad boy, come here and die for your country.Puss, puss.

  Captain Kettle came at last reluctantly, died for his country in recordtime, and flashed back again to the saucer. He had an importantappointment. Sorry to appea
r rude and all that sort of thing, don't youknow, but he had to see a cat about a mouse.

  'Well?' said Trentham, when his sister looked in upon him an hourlater.

  'Oh, Dick, it's the nicest cat I ever saw. I shall never be happy if Idon't get it.'

  'Have you bought it?' asked the practical Trentham.

  'My dear Dick, I couldn't. We couldn't bargain about a cat during tea.Why, I never met Mrs Prater before this afternoon.'

  'No, I suppose not,' admitted Trentham, gloomily. 'Anyhow, look here,if anything turns up to make the beak want to get rid of it, I'll tellhim you're dead nuts on it. See?'

  For a fortnight after this episode matters went on as before. MrsWilliamson departed, thinking regretfully of the cat she had leftbehind her.

  Captain Kettle died for his country with moderate regularity, and onone occasion, when he attempted to extract some milk from the verycentre of a fag's tea-party, almost died for another reason. Then theend came suddenly.

  Trentham had been invited to supper one Sunday by Mr Prater. When hearrived it became apparent to him that the atmosphere was one ofsubdued gloom. At first he could not understand this, but soon thereason was made clear. Captain Kettle had, in the expressive languageof the man in the street, been and gone and done it. He had been leftalone that evening in the drawing-room, while the House was at church,and his eye, roaming restlessly about in search of evil to perform, hadlighted upon a cage. In that cage was a special sort of canary, in itsown line as accomplished an artiste as Captain Kettle himself. It sangwith taste and feeling, and made itself generally agreeable in a numberof little ways. But to Captain Kettle it was merely a bird. One of thepoets sings of an acquaintance of his who was so constituted that 'aprimrose by the river's brim a simple primrose was to him, and it wasnothing more'. Just so with Captain Kettle. He was not the cat to makenice distinctions between birds. Like the cat in another poem, he onlyknew they made him light and salutary meals. So, with the exercise ofconsiderable ingenuity, he extracted that canary from its cage and ateit. He was now in disgrace.

  'We shall have to get rid of him,' said Mr Prater.

  'I'm afraid so,' said Mrs Prater.

  'If you weren't thinking of giving him to anyone in particular, sir,'said Trentham, 'my sister would be awfully glad to take him, I know.She was very keen on him when she came to see me.'

  'That's excellent,' said Prater. 'I was afraid we should have to sendhim to a home somewhere.'

  'I suppose we can't keep him after all?' suggested Mrs Prater.

  Trentham waited in suspense.

  'No,' said Prater, decidedly. 'I think _not_.' So Captain Kettlewent, and the House knew him no more, and the Tabby Terror was at anend.