Gladiator | Page 3

husband's quivering face and then to the broken
door. Then she spoke. "So. You've done it?"
"Done what?" he asked innocently.
"You've made all this rubbish you've been talking about
strength--happen to that kitten."
"It wasn't rubbish."
"Evidently."
Mrs. Danner did not resume her sewing. She breathed heavily and slow
fire crept into her cheeks. The enormity of the crime overcame her.
And she perceived that the hateful laboratory had invaded her portion
of the house. Moreover, her sturdy religion had been desecrated.
Danner read her thoughts.
"Don't be angry," he said. Beads of perspiration gathered on his brow.
"Angry!" The kitten stirred at the sound of her voice. "Angry! And why
not? Here you defied God and man--and made that creature of the devil.
You've overrun my house. You're a wicked, wicked man. And as for
that cat, I won't have it. I won't stand for it."
"What are you going to do?"
Her voice rose to a scream. "Do! Do! Plenty--and right here and now."
She ran to the kitchen and came back with a broom. She flung the front
door wide. Her blazing eyes rested for a moment on the kitten. To her it
had become merely an obnoxious little animal. "Scat! You little

demon!" The broom came down on the cat's back with a jarring thud.
After that, chaos. A ball of fur lashed through the air. Whatnot, bird
cage, bookcase, Morris Chair flew asunder. Then the light went out. In
the darkness a comet, a hurricane, ricocheted through the room. Then
there was a crash mightier than the others, followed by silence.
When Danner was able, he picked himself up and lighted the lamp. His
wife lay on the floor in a dead faint. He revived her. She sat up and
wept silently over the wreck of her parlor. Danner paled. A round
hole--a hole that could have been made by nothing but a solid cannon
shot--showed where the kitten had left the room through the wall.
Mrs. Banner's eyes were red-rimmed. Her breath came jerkily. With
incredulous little gestures she picked herself up and gazed at the hole.
A draught blew through it. Mr. Danner stuffed it with a rug.
"What are we going to do?" she said.
"If it comes back--we'll call it Samson."
And--as soon as Samson felt the gnawing of appetite, he returned to his
rightful premises. Mrs. Danner fed him. Her face was pale and her
hands trembled. Horror and fascination fought with each other in her
soul as she offered the food. Her husband was in his classroom,
nervously trying to fix his wits on the subject of the day.
"Kitty, kitty, poor little kitty," she said.
Samson purred and drank a quart of milk. She concealed her
astonishment from herself. Mrs. Danner's universe was undergoing a
transformation.
At three in the afternoon the kitten scratched away the screen door on
the back porch and entered the house. Mrs. Danner fed it the supper
meat.
Night came. The cat was allowed to go out unmolested. In the morning

the town of Indian Creek rose to find that six large dogs had been slain
during the dark hours. A panther had come down from the mountains,
they said. And Danner lectured with a dry tongue and errant mind.
It was Will Hoag, farmer of the fifth generation, resident of the
environs of Indian Creek, church-goer, and hard-cider addict, who bent
himself most mercilessly on the capture of the alleged panther. His
chicken-house suffered thrice and then his sheep-fold. After four such
depredations he cleaned his rifle and undertook a vigil from a spot
behind the barn. An old moon rose late and illuminated his pastures
with a blue glow He drank occasionally from a jug to ward off the evil
effects of the night air.
Some time after twelve his attention was distracted from the rug by
stealthy sounds. He moved toward them. A hundred yards away his
cows were huddled together--a heap of dun shadows. He saw a form
which he mistook for a weasel creeping toward the cows. As he
watched, he perceived that the small animal behaved singularly unlike a
weasel. It slid across the earth on taut limbs, as if it was going to attack
the cows. Will Hoag repressed a guffaw.
Then the farmer's short hair bristled. The cat sprang and landed on the
neck of the nearest cow and clung there. Its paws descended. There was
a horrid sound of ripping flesh, a moan, the thrashing of hoofs, a blot of
dribbling blood, and the cat began to gorge on its prey.
Hoag believed that he was intoxicated, that delirium tremens had
overtaken him. He stood rooted to the spot. The marauder ignored him.
Slowly, unbelievingly, he raised his rifle and fired. The bullet knocked
the