“Poor Mrs. Nickie Ben—we always prophesied it of you.”
“What will you do with it?” asked Lettie.
“It is one of the Strelley Mill cats,” said I, “and so I’ll take her home.”
The poor animal moved and murmured as I carried her, but we brought her home. They stared, on seeing me enter the kitchen coatless, carrying a strange bundle, while Lettie followed me.
“I have brought poor Mrs. Nickie Ben,” said I, unfolding my burden.
“Oh, what a shame!” cried Emily, putting out her hand to touch the cat, but drawing quickly back, like the pee-wits.
“This is how they all go,” said the mother.
“I wish keepers had to sit two or three days with their bare ankles in a trap,” said Mollie in vindictive tones.
We laid the poor brute on the rug, and gave it warm milk. It drank very little, being too feeble, Mollie, full of anger, fetched Mr.Nickie Ben, another fine black cat, to survey his crippled mate. Mr. Nickie Ben looked, shrugged his sleek shoulders, and walked away with high steps. There was a general feminine outcry on masculine callousness.
George came in for hot water. He exclaimed in surprise on seeing us, and his eyes became animated.
“Look at Mrs. Nickie Ben,” cried Mollie. He dropped on his knees on the rug and lifted the wounded paws.
“Broken,” said he.
“How awful!” said Emily, shuddering violently, and leaving the room.
