The Story of Jennie- or the Abandoned

by Paul Gallico

  `It wasn't a bribe,' Peter said with some indignation. `He gave it to us because he liked us. Couldn't you hear the way he spoke to us? And I think it was mean of us to run away from him as soon as the door opened a little bit.'

  A queer glitter came into Jennie Baldrin's eye, her ears began to flatten back on the top of her head and her tail to twitch ominously. `I think it was mean of HIM to shut the door on us. That should have given away to you what he was up to, if nothing else.'

  Peter said stubbornly, `Perhaps he shut the door on account of his flowers. He couldn't have been wicked and meant us any harm and kept so many flowers.'

  Jennie gave a low growl. `All people are wicked and I don't wish to have anything to do with them. I told you that when we first met, and why. And I still feel the same way.'

  `Then why do you continue to have anything to do with me?' Peter asked. `I'm a person, and—'

  `You are not!' Jennie cried, `you're an ordinary white cat and not a very nice one at that, after all I've done to—Oh dear, Peter, do you realize we're having our first disagreement? And over a human being! You see what happens when they come into your life?'

  Peter did realize that he was quarrelling with Jennie, and it made him feel ashamed because she had been so good to him and cared for him when he had been weak and injured, and so he said: `Dear Jennie Baldrin, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be angry with you. You've been so kind and gentle to me. And if it upsets you to think or talk about people or Mr. Grims, we won't do it anymore.'

  Jennie's eyes softened, her tail quieted, and she said: `Peter, you are a dear, and I'm sorry I flattened my ears at you.' She turned her head away and fell to washing vigorously, and in a moment Peter felt compelled to join her.

  After they had washed themselves out of the embarrassment caused by the mutual show of emotion, Peter noticed that Jennie was staring at him with a most curious expression on her soft white face, almost like, well, if he had been a boy instead of a cat, he would have said almost like a cat that had swallowed the mouse. She seemed to be hatching up an idea that gave her a great deal of pleasure and excitement.

  `Peter,' she began, just as a large steamer with a buff-and-green smokestack came around the bend of the river and gave a deep-throated hoot. `You are so awfully clever. Can you read writing as well as understand everything people say?'

  `Why, of course,' replied Peter, `I should jolly well think so. I've been going to school for two years. I can read nearly everything, I mean if the words aren't too long and mysterious.'

  'Oh, Peter, show me! Read something for me. What does it say on the boat, for instance—the little one just pushing …'

  'Maude F. O'Reilly, Thames Towing Co., Limited, Limehouse,' Peter read without hesitation.

  `And the one that's being pushed?'

  'Esso Queen, Standard Oil Company, Bayonne, N.J.'

  `And the one out in the river, just going by …?

  'Ryndam, Amsterdam. But I don't know what that one means …'

  Jennie gave a great sigh, and the look she turned upon Peter was positively doting. `Oh,' she said, `you couldn't possibly be making all of those up out of your head, could you?'

  `Certainly not,' Peter replied in some wonder. `You asked me to read them to you, and I did. If you don't believe—'

  'Oh, but I do, my Peter, I do …' said Jennie in a voice that sounded absolutely thrilled, `I just almost didn't dare. Oh, I am lucky. Don't you see what it means?'

  Peter tried to, but it was obvious to Jennie from his baffled expression that he didn't, so she told him. `It means that we are free. There is no place we cannot go or nothing we cannot do that we want to …'

  But Peter still didn't quite understand.

  The sun was now a red ball sinking down over the West of London and making a lurid crimson background for the forest of masts and funnels of the ships in the London Docks behind them, and the dark turrets and walls of the Tower of London rising up from Tower Hill in the distance. And as it dropped low in the sky and prepared to vanish behind the spires and chimneys of the city, a chill wind sprang up from the river, ruffling Peter's fur and reminding him that as yet they had not found a place to stay for the night where they would be warm and safe.

  He started to ask Jennie, 'It will be dark soon. Where will we go for the night …?' but she wasn't listening to him. She had a rapt expression on her face and a far-away look in her eyes. And then she said to him in a most momentous tone of voice

  `Peter … how would you like to go off on a little trip with me?'

  At once Peter was interested, nay more, captivated, for he loved going places and was happiest when he was travelling.

  'A trip? Oh, I'd love it! Where to? When?'

  `Now. At once, To-night, I mean, or whenever it goes. But we can look for it to-night. To Scotland. I'd love to go back and visit Glasgow, the city where I was born. And all the relatives I have at Balloch and Gaerlochhead and Balmaha. Oh, Peter, Peter, wouldn't it be the most fun . . .'

  Peter's eyes were now quite as wide with excitement as were

  Jennie's as he listened to the names of the places that sounded so far off and so fascinating, for Nanny had often told him all about Glasgow, and he cried, `But, Jennie, how can we? We haven't any money, or tickets …'

  'Oh, that part, that's simple,' said Jennie. 'We'll take a job and work our way north to Glasgow …'

  'A job,' Peter repeated, bewildered. `But what can we do?’

  'Plenty,' Jennie replied. 'We'll find a ship bound for Glasgow and sign on as ship's cats—after they discover that we're aboard. It's easy.'

  It was now Peter's turn to look with wonder and admiration at his companion. 'Jennie!' he said, 'do you mean to say you've done it already, you've been away to sea?'

  'Oh, yes, several times,' she replied, falling into that careless nonchalance that she could not seem to help adopting whenever Peter admired her, `but the trouble was I could never tell where I was going. I wanted very much to go to Egypt to visit the tombs of my ancestors, and instead I landed up in Oslo. Did I ever get tired of eating dried fish! And once I went all the way to New Orleans and back. I thought that one would never end. Twenty-eight days at sea. Such a bore…. But now that I know you can read the names of ships and where they are going. ..'

  A sudden thought struck Peter. `But, Jennie,' he said, 'being on ships—isn't that being with people, after all, I mean, you know what you said about not caring to—'

  `Not at all,' Jennie replied coolly. `It's quite different. You're working for your living, and believe me, you work. Anything you get you earn, keeping down the mice and rats, forecasting the weather, locating leaks and bad smells, and bringing good luck and what not you're called upon to do. It's all on a strictly business basis. The sailors and mates and masters have their work to do, and precious little time over it leaves them to try to get sentimental with you. And you have yours, and that keeps you occupied, and there's an end to it. The food isn't too bad, and what's important, it's regular—no worries about it, and plenty of it. You get your sea legs after a day or so, and outside of a certain monotony if you stay out of sight of land too long, it isn't a bad life. What say, friend?' And the look that she threw him was both eager and pleading as well as challenging.

  'Right-ho!' Peter cried. 'I'm for going.'

  'Bravo, Peter!' Jennie called, giving a little croon of delight. 'I knew you would. We'll search these docks back here in the basin first. Your job will be to read off the names. I'll pick the one we want to go on.'

  They set off immediately from Wapping Wall to the London Docks. At each ship they passed berthed in the Old or New Basin and the seemingly endless Dock area, Peter would gaze up at the wondrous, alluring names lettered in gold beneath the taffrail, with their home ports, and read them off to Jennie.

  'Raimona—Lisbon,' he read.

  `Lisbon is full of cats—my type,' Jennie commented.

  `Vilhialmar—Helsinki …'

  'No more dried fish, thank you,' Jennie re
marked, a little acidly.

  `Isis—Alexandria …'

  Jennie went all dreamy, and even appeared to hesitate for a moment as though on the verge of changing her mind, but then said, `Some day, perhaps, but not now. When we come hack, maybe. Alexandria, Cairo, then up the River Nile. Bubastis is where I want to get to. We really were sacred there . . .'

  Ship after ship they inspected whose home ports were dotted all over the globe from Suez to Calcutta, from Singapore to Colon, and from Bangor, Maine, to Jamaica, West Indies and Tampico, Mexico. And then, right at the end of the largest basin, almost at the entrance to St. Catherine's Docks, they came upon a little one squatting low and lumpy alongside its berth, and its letters weren't in gold, but plain white, and that so smudged and dirty from smoke and grime that Peter could hardly make them out and had to squint up a second time through the growing darkness, but when he did read it his heart gave a jump of excitement.

  'Jennie! It says: "Countess of Greenock—Glasgow"!'

  'Lumme!' Jennie whooped, a little inelegantly, `that's our ship. There's your new home for the next few weeks or so, Peter.'

  Peter's enthusiasm cooled somewhat as he looked her over, for she was far from a thing of beauty. Her hull was black and rusted red in spots, squat and ugly, with a stubby bow from which rose a short mast with an enormous cargo boom that was engaged at the very moment lifting crates and packing-cases and huge nets filled with barrels and drums from the dockside and lowering them into her interior.

  She had an island bridge amidships with a wheelhouse a-top in several different shades of brown, that reminded Peter of a large slice of chocolate layer cake. Another mast and busy boom stuck up behind this, and then back of the second cargo hold rose the brief cabin section with quarters, two lifeboats fastened on either side, and to cap it a long, thin, dirty smokestack in part buff topped with black. Thick smoke was pouring from this funnel, and from it there came a soft-coal smell so raw, acrid and pungent that Peter sneezed violently several times.

  `Bless you,' Jennie said, and then added with feeling: 'It's going to be a job to keep ourselves clean aboard her. But of course you know what it means when she's smoking like that. Probably getting up steam to sail to-night. We're just in time. You see they're loading as fast as they can.'

  Jennie studied the situation for a moment and then observed: 'Looks to me like they're loading general cargo. Which means plenty of work for us, especially since there'll be foodstuffs. Well, Peter, are you ready to go aboard? We might as well, while they're busy and pick ourselves a spot to stow away until they cast off.'

  Peter could hardly keep his teeth from chattering from pure excitement. But he said to Jennie, 'What if when they find us they are angry and decide to throw us overboard?' For he remembered reading that it went hard very often with stowaways found aboard ship after sailing.

  'What?' said Jennie, a little scornfully, `sailors? Throw us overboard? You forget that we are cats and they are superstitious. Now then! We shan't want to risk getting stepped on where they're loading. There ought to be a third gangway aft to the officers' quarters.' The mere sight of the vessel had been sufficient to turn Jennie's speech quite nautical. She continued: 'If I know anything about the discipline aboard, the way this tramp seems to be kept, there won't be any watch on it. The crew is probably mostly ashore having a last fling. Come along, we'll have a look.'

  They crept around the darkened portion of the pier to the stern of the Countess of Greenock, where, sure, enough, a small gangway led up from the dock to the head of a narrow companionway on the lower deck. And as Jennie had prophesied, there was no sailor on watch duty at either end, in fact there wasn't so much as a soul about.

  'No time like the present,' said Jennie cheerfully, having inspected the set-up thoroughly. She took a few more cautious sniffs all around, and then, without further ado, trotted up the gangplank with Peter following her close behind.

  CHAPTER TEN: Price of Two Tickets to Glasgow

  ONCE aboard, Jennie's experience and knowledge of ships stood her in good stead. She called for the point-to-point method of procedure again, for she was particularly anxious not to encounter any humans before the ship had cast off, and while she herself could melt and blend with the shadows in corners and behind things, she was worried over the conspicuousness of Peter's snow-white coat. But she followed her nose and her instincts as well as her memory of the other steamships on which she had served, and soon was leading Peter down a narrow companionway that led to a small dining saloon and thence to the galley.

  Tea was long since over, all of the crew and officers were on deck engaged with the cargo and preparations for leaving, and Jennie counted on finding that part of the ship deserted. She was right. The galley fires were out and there was no immediate sign of cook or scullery-man. Also no doors were shut anywhere, which gave Jennie further indication as to what kind of a craft it was, and she led him from the galley through the pantry to the small storeroom where the immediate supplies were kept. At the end of this room was a doorway, and a narrow iron staircase that descended to another passageway, on one side of which was the refrigeration room and on the other a large dry-stores enclosure where the ship's supplies in bulk were kept sacks of flour and beans and dried peas, tins of fruit and vegetables, boxes of biscuits, tea, coffee, etc.

  The slatted door to this also stood wide open. It was dark, but an electric light burning far down the passageway shed sufficient light so that with their acute vision they soon accustomed themselves and could see their way about the boxes and cartons and barrels as well as though it were broad daylight.

  And it was there in the storeroom, well concealed behind a case of tinned tomatoes, that Peter saw and missed his first mouse, revealing what might have been a fatal weakness in their plans. It had never dawned on him, and Jennie too had quite neglected to think about it and take into consideration that for all his looking like and appearing to be, and learning to behave like a cat, Peter had not the faintest idea how to go about the difficult and important business of catching a mouse.

  Indeed, it was only through the lucky break that in the last moment more cargo arrived and the Countess of Greenock did not sail that night, nor the next night either, that they were able to remedy this deficiency at least partly, for superstition or no, a cat that proved itself wholly unable to catch marauding rodents might have received short shrift aboard such a craft.

  The awkward discovery came when Jennie called his attention to the little scratching, nibbling sort of noise from the other side of the storeroom, whispering—`Ssh! Mouse! There he is over by the biscuit box. Let's see you get him.'

  Peter concentrated, staring through the gloom, —and there indeed he was, just edging around the corner of the large tin marked HUNTLEY & PALMER LTD., READING, a long, greyish chap with a greedy face, impertinent whiskers and beady black eyes.

  Peter was so anxious to show off to Jennie what he could do as a cat if given the chance, that he hardly even set himself to spring, or paused to measure the distance, the obstacles and the possible avenues of escape open to the mouse. Without a moment's thought or plan, he launched himself through the air in one terrific pounce, paws spread wide, jaws open to snatch him.

  There was, of course, no mouse there when Peter landed.

  And not only that, but his teeth clicked together on empty air, there was nothing beneath his paws and, in addition, having miscalculated his distance, or rather not calculated it at all, he gave himself a nasty knock on the head against the side of the tin box, all of which did not help the feeling that he had made a perfect fool of himself.

  But while the mouse had saved itself momentarily, it also committed a fatal error by failing to dodge back behind the tin. Instead, gripped by panic, it emitted a squeak and went the other way, and the next instant, like a streak of furred lightning, Jennie had hurled herself through the air, her front paws, talons bared and extended, striking from side to side in a series of short, sharp, stunning hooks, even while sh
e was in passage. The blows, as she landed, caught the mouse, knocking him first to one side, then back to the other, dazed and bewildered, then tossed him up in the air, batted him a couple before he came down, at which point Jennie seized him in her mouth and it was all over before Peter had even so much as recovered his balance as well as from his confusion.

  `Oh dear,' Jennie said, dropping the mouse. `I hadn't thought of that. Of course you wouldn't know how. Why should you? But we shall be in a pretty pickle if we're caught here before you know something about it. And I don't know how much time we shall have. Still. ..'

  Peter at last found his tongue and emitted a cry of anger and mortification. `Goodness,' he said, `isn't there anything I can do? Does EVERYTHING have to be learned?'

  `It's practice, really,' Jennie explained. `Even we have to keep practising constantly. That, and while I hate to use the expression—"know-how." It's like everything else. You find there's a right way and a wrong way. The right way is to catch them with your paws, not your mouth, and of course the preparation is everything. Look here, I'll show you what I mean …'

  Here she crouched down a few feet away from the dead mouse and then began a slow waggling of her hindquarters from side to side, gradually increasing the speed and shortening the distance of the waggle. `That's what you must try, to begin with,' she explained. 'We don't do that for fun, or because we're nervous, but to give ourselves motion. It's ever so much harder and less accurate to spring from a standing start than from a moving one. Try it now and see how much easier it is to take off than the other way.'

  Peter's rear-end waggle was awkward at first, but he soon began to find the rhythm of it—it was almost like the `One to get set, two to make ready, and THREE to go' in foot-racing, except that this was even better because he found that what Jennie said was quite true and that the slight bit of motion did start him off the mark like an arrow.