"Do you keep cats, Mrs. Middlemore?" asked Constable Nightingale, brewing another grog for himself and Constable Wigg.
"I don't," replied Mrs. Middlemore. "Mr. Felix won't 'ave one in the 'ouse."
"There's one in the house now, though," said Constable Nightingale. "It come in when the wind burst open the street door, and Wigg and me fell into the passage. He says it's not a cat, but a spectre, a ghost."
"Lord save us!" ejaculated Mrs. Middlemore. "If Mr. Felix sees it he'll never forgive me. He 'as a 'atred of 'em. And the ghost of a cat, too!" She was so impressed that she edged closer to Constable Nightingale.
"It was a spectre cat," said Constable Wigg, desirous to do something to divert Mrs. Middlemore's thoughts from Mr. Felix, and also from her leaning toward his comrade. "And then there was that cry for 'Help' I fancied I heard."
"What cry for help?" asked Mrs. Middlemore.
"I thought I heard it three times," said Constable Wigg-but he was prevented from going further by an incident which was followed by a startling picture. Constable Nightingale, rather thrown off his balance by the drink he had imbibed, and desirous to meet the advances of Mrs. Middlemore, slyly put his arm round her waist, and to hide the movement from the observation of his brother constable, made a clumsy movement over the table, and overturned the candle, the effect of which was to put out the light and to leave them in darkness. He was not sorry for it, for the reason that he was hugging Mrs. Middlemore close. But Constable Wigg started up in fear, and cried:
"Somebody has pushed open the door!"
In point of fact the kitchen-door had been quietly pushed open, and the other two observed it when their attention was directed toward it.
"What is it?" whispered Mrs. Middlemore, shaking like a jelly, "Oh, what is it?"
Constable Nightingale, for the second time that night pulled out his dark lantern, and cast its light upon the door. And there, imbedded in the circle of light, was the cat which had already twice before alarmed Constable Wigg. They uttered a cry of horror, and indeed they were justified by the picture which presented itself. The cat was red. Every bristle, sticking up on its skin, was luminous with horrible color. It was a perfect ball of blood.
CHAPTER IV.
A DISCUSSION ABOUT RED CATS AND WHITE SNOW
In a fit of terror the constable dropped the lantern, and the cat, unseen by the occupants of the kitchen, scuttled away.
"If you don't light the candle," gasped Mrs. Middlemore, "I shall go off." And she forthwith proceeded to demonstrate by screaming, "Oh, oh, oh!"
"She's done it, Wigg," said Constable Nightingale. "Strike a light, there's a good fellow, and pick up the lantern. I can't do it myself; I've got my arms full."
Constable Wigg had now recovered his courage, and inspired by jealousy, quickly struck a match and lit the candle. Mrs. Middlemore lay comfortably in the arms of Constable Nightingale, who did not seem anxious to rid himself of his burden. Stirred to emulative sympathy, Constable Wigg took possession of one of Mrs. Middlemore's hands, and pressed and patted it with a soothing, "There, there, there! What has made you come over like this? There's nothing to be frightened of, is there, Nightingale?"
"Nothing at all," replied Constable Nightingale, irascibly, for he by no means relished his comrade's insidious attempt to slide into Mrs. Middlemore's affections. "You're better now, ain't you?"
"A little," murmured Mrs. Middlemore, "a very little."
"Take a sip of this," said Constable Wigg, holding a glass to her lips, "it'll bring you round."
Ignoring her previous declaration that she did not "drink sperrits," Mrs. Middlemore sipped the glass of whiskey, and continued to sip, with intermittent shudders, till she had drained the last drop. Then she summoned sufficient strength to raise herself languidly from Constable Nightingale's arms, and look toward the door.
"Where's it gone to?" she asked, in a trembling voice. "What's become of the 'orrid creature?"
"What horrid creature, my dear?" inquired Constable Nightingale, winking at his comrade.
"The cat! The red cat!"
"A red cat!" exclaimed Constable Nightingale, in a jocular voice; "who ever heard of such a thing? Who ever saw such a thing?"
"Why, I did-and you did, too."
"Not me," said Constable Nightingale, with another wink at Constable Wigg.
"Nor me," said that officer, following the lead.
"Do you mean to tell me you didn't see a cat, and that the cat you sor wasn't red?"
"I saw a cat, yes," said Constable Nightingale, "but not a red 'un-no, not a red un'. What do you say, Wigg?"
"I say as you says, Nightingale."
"There's lobsters, now," said Constable Nightingale; "we know what color they are when they're boiled, but we don't boil cats, that I know of, and if we did they wouldn't turn red. You learned natural history when you was at school, Wigg. What did they say about red cats?"
"It's against nature," said Constable Wigg, adding, with an unconscious imitation of Macbeth, "there's no such thing."
"I must take your word for it," said Mrs. Middlemore, only half convinced, "but if ever my eyes deceived me they deceived me jest now. If you two gentlemen wasn't here, I'd be ready to take my oath the cat was red. And now I come to think of it, what made the pair of you cry out as you did?"
"What made us cry out?" repeated Constable Nightingale, who, in this discussion, proved himself much superior to his brother officer in the matter of invention. "It was natural, that's what it was, natural. I'm free to confess I was a bit startled. First, there's the night-listen to it; it's going on worse than ever-ain't that enough to startle one? I've been out in bad nights, but I never remember such a one-er as this. Did you, Wigg?"
"Never. If it goes on much longer, it'll beat that American blizzard they talked so much of."
"That's enough to startle a chap," continued Constable Nightingale, "letting alone anything else. But then, there was that talk about a spectre cat. I ain't frightened of much that I know of. Put a man before me, or a dog, or a horse, and I'm ready to tackle 'em, one down and the other come up, or altogether if they like; but when you come to spectres, I ain't ashamed to say I'm not up to 'em. Its constitootional, Mrs. Middlemore; I was that way when I was little. There was a cupboard at home, and my mother used to say, 'Don't you ever open it, Jimmy; there's a ghost hiding behind the door.' I wouldn't have put my hand on the knob for untold gold. It's the same now. Anything that's alive I don't give way to; but when it comes to ghosts and spectres I take a back seat, and I don't care who knows it. Then there was that cry for 'Help,' that Wigg was speaking of. Then there was the candle going out" – he gave Mrs. Middlemore a nudge as he referred to this incident-"and the sudden opening of the door there. It was all them things together that made me cry out; and if brother Wigg's got any other explanation to give I shall be glad to hear it."
"No, Nightingale," said the prudent and unimaginative Wigg, "I couldn't improve on you. You've spoke like a man, and I hope our good-looking, good-natured landlady is satisfied."
This complimentary allusion served to dispel Mrs. Middlemore's fears, and in a more contented frame of mind she resumed her seat at the table, the constables following her example.
"May the present moment," said Constable Nightingale, lifting his glass and looking affectionately at Mrs. Middlemore, "be the worst of our lives; and here's my regards to you."
"And mine, my good creature," said Constable Wigg.
"Gents both," said Mrs. Middlemore, now thoroughly restored, "I looks toward yer."
Whereupon they all drank, and settled themselves comfortably in their chairs.
"What was in that cupboard," asked Mrs. Middlemore, "that your mother told you there was a ghost in?"
"What was in it? Now, that shows how a body may be frightened at nothing.