Produced by Jacqueline Jeremy, David Edwards and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) THE CALICO CAT BY CHARLES MINER THOMPSON WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. R. GRUGER [Illustration: Logo] BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press Cambridge 1908 COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY CHARLES MINER THOMPSON ALL RIGHTS RESERVED _Published October, 1908_ SECOND IMPRESSION TO MY WIFE NOTE I have to make these acknowledgments: to Mr. Ira Rich Kent for many a helpful suggestion in the framing of the story; to the publishers of "The Youth's Companion," in which the tale first appeared, for permitting the use of Mr. Gruger's admirable illustrations, and to Mr. Francis W. Hight for the very pleasant cat which he has drawn for the cover. THE AUTHOR [Illustration: Cat dozing upon the top of the fence.] THE CALICO CAT I Mr. Peaslee looked more complacent than ever. It was Saturday noon, and Solomon had just returned from his usual morning sojourn "up-street." He had taken off his coat, and was washing his face at the sink, while his wife was "dishing up" the midday meal. There was salt codfish, soaked fresh, and stewed in milk--"picked up," as the phrase goes; there were baked potatoes and a thin, pale-looking pie. Mrs. Peaslee did not believe in pampering the flesh, and she did believe in saving every possible cent. "Well," said Mr. Peaslee, as they sat down to this feast, "I guess I've got news for ye." His wife gazed at him with interest. "Are ye drawed?" she asked. "Got the notice from Whitcomb right in my pocket. Grand juror. September term. 'T ain't more'n a week off." The _staccato_ utterance was caused by the big mouthfuls of codfish and potato which, between phrases, Mr. Peaslee conveyed to his mouth. It was plain to see that he was greatly pleased with his new dignity. "What do they give ye for it?" asked his wife. Solomon should accept no office which did not bring profit. "Two dollars a day and mileage," said Mr. Peaslee, with the emphasis of one who knows he will make a sensation. "Mileage? What's that?" "Travelin' expenses. State allows ye so much a mile. I get eight cents for goin' to the courthouse." "Ye get eight cents every day?" asked his wife, her eyes snapping. She was vague about the duties of a grand juror; maybe he had to earn his two dollars; but she had exact ideas about the trouble of walking "up-street." To get eight cents for that was being paid for doing nothing at all, and she was much astonished at the idea. "Likely now, ain't it?" said Mr. Peaslee, with masculine scorn. "State don't waste money that way! Mileage's to get ye there an' take ye home again when term's over. You're s'posed to stay round 'tween whiles."