“I don’t like boys,” he said, without preliminary of any sort. “What do you think they were doing to this poor old cat? Dragging it along by a string to drown it; see where it’s cut into the fur! I think boys despise the old and weak!” He held it out to me. At the ends of those little sticks of arms the beast looked more dead than alive; I had never seen a more miserable creature. “I think a cat,” he said, “is one of the most marvellous things in the world. Such a depth of life in it.” And, as he spoke, the cat opened its mouth as if protesting at that assertion. It _was_ the sorriest-looking beast. “What are you going to do with it?” “Take it home: it looks to me as if it might die.” “You don’t think that might be more merciful?” “It depends; it depends. I shall see. I fancy a little kindness might do a great deal for it. It’s got plenty of spirit. I can see from its eye.” “May I come along with you a bit?” “Oh!” he said; “delighted.” We walked on side by side, exciting the derision of nearly every one we passed--his face looked so like a mother’s when she is feeding her baby! “You’ll find this’ll be quite a different cat to-morrow,” he said. “I shall have to get in, though, without my landlady seeing; a funny woman! I have two or three strays already.” “Can I help in any way?” “Thank you,” he said. “I shall ring the area bell, and as she comes out below I shall go in above. She’ll think it’s boys. They _are_ like that.” “But doesn’t she do your rooms, or anything?” A smile puckered his face. “I’ve only one; I do it myself. Oh, it’d never do to have her about, even if I could afford it. But,” he added, “if you’re so kind as to come with me to the door, you might engage her by asking where Mr. Thompson lives. That’s me. In the musical world my name was Moronelli; not that I have Italian blood in me, of course.” “And shall I come up?” “Honoured; but I live very quietly.” We passed out of the gardens at Lancaster Gate, where all the house-fronts seem so successful, and out of it into a little street that was extremely like a grubby child trying to hide under its mother’s skirts. Here he took a newspaper from his pocket and wrapped it round the cat. “She’s a funny woman,” he repeated; “Scotch descent, you know.” Suddenly he pulled an area bell and scuttled up the steps. When he had opened the door, however, I saw before him in the hall a short, thin woman dressed in black, with a sharp and bumpy face. Her voice sounded brisk and resolute. “What have you got there, Mr. Thompson?” “Newspaper, Mrs. March.” “Oh, indeed! Now, you’re not going to take that cat upstairs!” The little old fellow’s voice acquired a sudden shrill determination. “Stand aside, please. If you stop me, I’ll give you notice. The cat is going up. It’s ill, and it is going up.” It was then I said: “Does Mr. Thompson live here?” In that second he shot past her, and ascended.