Animal Heroes | Page 4

And still they came to get their portions. All were well known to the
meat-man. There was Castiglione's Tiger; this was Jones's Black; here was Pralitsky's
"Torkershell," and this was Madame Danton's White; there sneaked Blenkinshoff's
Maltee, and that climbing on the barrow was Sawyer's old Orange Billy, an impudent
fraud that never had had any financial backing,--all to be remembered and kept in
account. This one's owner was sure pay, a dime a week; that one's doubtful. There was
John Washee's Cat, that got only a small piece because John was in arrears. Then there
was the saloon-keeper's collared and ribboned ratter, which got an extra lump because the
'barkeep' was liberal; and the rounds-man's Cat, that brought no cash, but got unusual
consideration because the meat-man did. But there were others. A black Cat with a white
nose came rushing confidently with the rest, only to be repulsed savagely. Alas! Pussy
did not understand. She had been a pensioner of the barrow for months. Why this unkind
change? It was beyond her comprehension. But the meat-man knew. Her mistress had
stopped payment. The meat-man kept no books but his memory, and it never was at fault.
Outside this patrician 'four hundred' about the barrow, were other Cats, keeping away
from the push-cart because they were not on the list, the Social Register as it were, yet
fascinated by the heavenly smell and the faint possibility of accidental good luck. Among
these hangers-on was a thin gray Slummer, a homeless Cat that lived by her
wits--slab-sided and not over-clean. One could see at a glance that she was doing her duty
by a family in some out-of-the-way corner. She kept one eye on the barrow circle and the
other on the possible Dogs. She saw a score of happy Cats slink off with their delicious
'daily' and their tiger-like air, but no opening for her, till a big Tom of her own class
sprang on a little pensioner with intent to rob. The victim dropped the meat to defend
herself against the enemy, and before the 'all-powerful' could intervene, the gray
Slummer saw her chance, seized the prize, and was gone.
She went through the hole in Menzie's side door and over the wall at the back, then sat
down and devoured the lump of liver, licked her chops, felt absolutely happy, and set out
by devious ways to the rubbish-yard, where, in the bottom of an old cracker-box, her
family was awaiting her. A plaintive mewing reached her ears. She went at speed and
reached the box to see a huge Black Tom-cat calmly destroying her brood. He was twice
as big as she, but she went at him with all her strength, and he did as most animals will do
when caught wrong-doing, he turned and ran away. Only one was left, a little thing like
its mother, but of more pronounced color--gray with black spots, and a white touch on
nose, ears, and tail-tip. There can be no question of the mother's grief for a few days; but
that wore off, and all her care was for the survivor. That benevolence was as far as
possible from the motives of the murderous old Tom there can be no doubt; but he proved
a blessing in deep disguise, for both mother and Kit were visibly bettered in a short time.
The daily quest for food continued. The meat-man rarely proved a success, but the
ash-cans were there, and if they did not afford a meat-supply, at least they were sure to
produce potato-skins that could be used to allay the gripe of hunger for another day.
One night the mother Cat smelt a wonderful smell that came from the East River at the

end of the alley. A new smell always needs investigating, and when it is attractive as well
as new, there is but one course open. It led Pussy to the docks a block away, and then out
on a wharf, away from any cover but the night. A sudden noise, a growl and a rush, were
the first notice she had that she was cut off by her old enemy, the Wharf Dog. There was
only one escape. She leaped from the wharf to the vessel from which the smell came. The
Dog could not follow, so when the fish-boat sailed in the morning Pussy unwillingly
went with her and was seen no more.
II
The Slum Kitten waited in vain for her mother. The morning came and went. She became
very hungry. Toward evening a deep-laid instinct drove her forth to seek food. She slunk
out of the old box, and feeling her way silently among the rubbish, she smelt everything
that seemed eatable, but without finding food. At length she reached the wooden