He had lived once, he said, in a family in London where the master kept him to catch mice, and the cook to put thefts on. He never knew what he hadn't done. When he saw a joint or a fish come in, handed over at the backdoor by the fishmonger or the butcher's boy, he used to say sadly to himself, 'Now, shall I be supposed to steal that?' And generally the cook's mother came in the afternoon of that day, and, sure enough, she got one of those soles or the end of that joint, and the mistress was told next morning, 'Ma'am, that awful Charlie again!' He tried to manage to be out of the way while the mistress was ordering dinner, because after saying this sort of thing the cook used to look round for him and broom him out to show how cross she was with him, and how she abhorred his crime. It was a most insecure life. Then once or twice he said he thought that he might as well have the good of the fish or meat he was accused of stealing, and he really did take it; but the cook was too sharp for him, and gave him a whipping for stealing the portion of her poor old mother. That didn't pay, and only was the means of his getting two whippings instead of one. The cook hardly fed him at all, but expected him to cater for himself out of the mice that were living behind the boards, and who came out at night and played about. The supply of mice varied very much, and he said that, when mice were plentiful, he used to let them go so as to save them for another dinner later on; then if mice were scarce he got so weak he couldn't catch them. He often thought it wasn't good enough, and that he would like to make a change. He visited every house in the square in which he lived, in turn, hoping that they would see fit to keep him, as he was a black cat, and a black cat taking up its abode with you is accounted lucky. But no, they all broomed him out, and one tall cook hot-watered him out, and that hurt. So he stayed on with Mrs. Murch and was bullied all the time, and had no pleasure in life, except on warm sunny days sitting in the square garden pretending that there was no necessity to fag after birds. He used to envy the cats who didn't have need to pretend, but were so well fed that all they need do was to look lazily after the birds flying past, and gibber at them, or cats like us who are positively forbidden to go after birds because it is cruel. The first time the family went away for the summer and left him, he couldn't make head or tail of it, he said. But other cats told him he might think himself lucky They had not locked him in, the way They do sometimes, and then the policeman has to get them out if he is kind and has a mind to. Charlie had the run of the garden and the birds, but he missed the 'drain' of milk the cook gave him when she was in a good humour, and he soon got so weak and flabby that he could not catch a bird, and they used to sit in the branches and mock at him--the sparrows, that is.