Captains All and Others

Henery Walker went off whistling, and the opinion he’d ‘ad o’ Joe Clark began to improve. He spoke to Joe about it that arternoon, and Joe said that if ‘e ever accused ‘im o’ such a thing again he’d knock ‘is ‘ead off. He said that he ‘oped the cat ‘ud live to be a hundred, and that ‘e’d no more think of giving it poisoned meat than Henery Walker would of paying for ‘is drink so long as ‘e could get anybody else to do it for ‘im.

They ‘ad bets up at this ‘ere Cauliflower public-’ouse that evening as to ‘ow long that cat ‘ud live. Nobody gave it more than a month, and Bill Chambers sat and thought o’ so many ways o’ killing it on the sly that it was wunnerful to hear ‘im.

George Barstow took fright when he ‘eard of them, and the care ‘e took o’ that cat was wunnerful to behold. Arf its time it was shut up in the back bedroom, and the other arf George Barstow was fussing arter it till that cat got to hate ‘im like pison. Instead o’ giving up work as he’d thought to do, ‘e told Henery Walker that ‘e’d never worked so ‘ard in his life.

“Wot about fresh air and exercise for it?” ses Henery.

“Wot about Joe Clark?” ses George Bar-stow. “I’m tied ‘and and foot. I dursent leave the house for a moment. I ain’t been to the Cauliflower since I’ve ‘ad it, and three times I got out o’ bed last night to see if it was safe.”

“Mark my words,” ses Henery Walker; “if that cat don’t ‘ave exercise, you’ll lose it.

“I shall lose it if it does ‘ave exercise,” ses George Barstow, “that I know.”

He sat down thinking arter Henery Walker ‘ad gone, and then he ‘ad a little collar and chain made for it, and took it out for a walk. Pretty nearly every dog in Claybury went with ‘em, and the cat was in such a state o’ mind afore they got ‘ome he couldn’t do anything with it. It ‘ad a fit as soon as they got indoors, and George Barstow, who ‘ad read about children’s fits in the almanac, gave it a warm bath. It brought it round immediate, and then it began to tear round the room and up and downstairs till George Barstow was afraid to go near it.

It was so bad that evening, sneezing, that George Barstow sent for Bill Chambers, who’d got a good name for doctoring animals, and asked ‘im to give it something. Bill said he’d got some powders at ‘ome that would cure it at once, and he went and fetched ‘em and mixed one up with a bit o’ butter.

“That’s the way to give a cat medicine,” he ses; “smear it with the butter and then it’ll lick it off, powder and all.”

He was just going to rub it on the cat when George Barstow caught ‘old of ‘is arm and stopped ‘im.

“How do I know it ain’t pison?” he ses. “You’re a friend o’ Joe Clark’s, and for all I know he may ha’ paid you to pison it.”

“I wouldn’t do such a thing,” ses Bill. “You ought to know me better than that.”

“All right,” ses George Barstow; “you eat it then, and I’ll give you two shillings in stead o’ one. You can easy mix some more.”

“Not me,” ses Bill Chambers, making a face.

“Well, three shillings, then,” ses George Barstow, getting more and more suspicious like; “four shillings—five shillings.”

Bill Chambers shook his ‘ead, and George Barstow, more and more certain that he ‘ad caught ‘im trying to kill ‘is cat and that ‘e wouldn’t eat the stuff, rose ‘im up to ten shillings.

Bill looked at the butter and then ‘e looked at the ten shillings on the table, and at last he shut ‘is eyes and gulped it down and put the money in ‘is pocket.

“You see, I ‘ave to be careful, Bill,” ses George Barstow, rather upset.

Bill Chambers didn’t answer ‘im. He sat there as white as a sheet, and making such extraordinary faces that George was arf afraid of ‘im.

“Anything wrong, Bill?” he ses at last.

Bill sat staring at ‘im, and then all of a sudden he clapped ‘is ‘andkerchief to ‘is mouth and, getting up from his chair, opened the door and rushed out. George Barstow thought at fust that he ‘ad eaten pison for the sake o’ the ten shillings, but when ‘e remembered that Bill Chambers ‘ad got the most delikit stummick in Claybury he altered ‘is mind.

The cat was better next morning, but George Barstow had ‘ad such a fright about it ‘e wouldn’t let it go out of ‘is sight, and Joe Clark began to think that ‘e would ‘ave to wait longer for that property than ‘e had thought, arter all. To ‘ear ‘im talk anybody’d ha’ thought that ‘e loved that cat. We didn’t pay much attention to it up at the Cauliflower ‘ere, except maybe to wink at ‘im—a thing he couldn’t a bear—but at ‘ome, o’ course, his young ‘uns thought as everything he said was Gospel; and one day, coming ‘ome from work, as he was passing George Barstow’s he was paid out for his deceitfulness.

“I’ve wronged you, Joe Clark,” ses George Barstow, coming to the door, “and I’m sorry for it.”

“Oh!” ses Joe, staring.

“Give that to your little Jimmy,” ses George Barstow, giving ‘im a shilling. “I’ve give ‘im one, but I thought arterwards it wasn’t enough.”

“What for?” ses Joe, staring at ‘im agin.

“For bringing my cat ‘ome,” ses George Barstow. “‘Ow it got out I can’t think, but I lost it for three hours, and I’d about given it up when your little Jimmy brought it to me in ‘is arms. He’s a fine little chap and ‘e does you credit.”

Joe Clark tried to speak, but he couldn’t get a word out, and Henery Walker, wot ‘ad just come up and ‘eard wot passed, took hold of ‘is arm and helped ‘im home. He walked like a man in a dream, but arf-way he stopped and cut a stick from the hedge to take ‘ome to little Jimmy. He said the boy ‘ad been asking him for a stick for some time, but up till then ‘e’d always forgotten it.

At the end o’ the fust year that cat was still alive, to everybody’s surprise; but George Barstow took such care of it ‘e never let it out of ‘is sight. Every time ‘e went out he took it with ‘im in a hamper, and, to prevent its being pisoned, he paid Isaac Sawyer, who ‘ad the biggest family in Claybury, sixpence a week to let one of ‘is boys taste its milk before it had it.

The second year it was ill twice, but the horse-doctor that George Barstow got for it said that it was as ‘ard as nails, and with care it might live to be twenty. He said that it wanted more fresh air and exercise; but when he ‘eard ‘ow George Barstow come by it he said that p’r’aps it would live longer indoors arter all.

At last one day, when George Barstow ‘ad been living on the fat o’ the land for nearly three years, that cat got out agin. George ‘ad raised the front-room winder two or three inches to throw something outside, and, afore he knew wot was ‘appening, the cat was out-side and going up the road about twenty miles an hour.

George Barstow went arter it, but he might as well ha’ tried to catch the wind. The cat was arf wild with joy at getting out agin, and he couldn’t get within arf a mile of it.

He stayed out all day without food or drink, follering it about until it came on dark, and then, o’ course, he lost sight of it, and, hoping against ‘ope that it would come home for its food, he went ‘ome and waited for it. He sat up all night dozing in a chair in the front room with the door left open, but it was all no use; and arter thinking for a long time wot was best to do, he went out and told some o’ the folks it was lost and offered a reward of five pounds for it.

You never saw such a hunt then in all your life. Nearly every man, woman, and child in Claybury left their work or school and went to try and earn that five pounds. By the arternoon George Barstow made it ten pounds provided the cat was brought ‘ome safe and sound, and people as was too old to walk stood at their cottage doors to snap it up as it came by.

Joe Clark was hunting for it ‘igh and low, and so was ‘is wife and the boys. In fact, I b’lieve that everybody in Claybury excepting the parson and Bob Pretty was trying to get that ten pounds.

O’ course, we could understand the parson—‘is pride wouldn’t let ‘im; but a low, poaching, thieving rascal like Bob Pretty turning up ‘is nose at ten pounds was more than we could make out. Even on the second day, when George Barstow made it ten pounds down and a shilling a week for a year besides, he didn’t offer to stir; all he did was to try and make fun o’ them as was looking for it.

“Have you looked everywhere you can think of for it, Bill?” he ses to Bill Chambers. “Yes, I ‘ave,” ses Bill.

“Well, then, you want to look everywhere else,” ses Bob Pretty. “I know where I should look if I wanted to find it.”

“Why don’t you find it, then?” ses Bill.

“‘Cos I don’t want to make mischief,” ses Bob Pretty. “I don’t want to be unneighbourly to Joe Clark by interfering at all.”

“Not for all that money?” ses Bill.

“Not for fifty pounds,” ses Bob Pretty; “you ought to know me better than that, Bill Chambers.”

“It’s my belief that you know more about where that cat is than you ought to,” ses Joe Gubbins.

“You go on looking for it, Joe,” ses Bob Pretty, grinning; “it’s good exercise for you, and you’ve only lost two days’ work.”

“I’ll give you arf a crown if you let me search your ‘ouse, Bob,” ses Bill Chambers, looking at ‘im very ‘ard.

“I couldn’t do it at the price, Bill,” ses Bob Pretty, shaking his ‘ead. “I’m a pore man, but I’m very partikler who I ‘ave come into my ‘ouse.”

O’ course, everybody left off looking at once when they heard about Bob— not that they believed that he’d be such a fool as to keep the cat in his ‘ouse; and that evening, as soon as it was dark, Joe Clark went round to see ‘im.

“Don’t tell me as that cat’s found, Joe,” ses Bob Pretty, as Joe opened the door.

“Not as I’ve ‘eard of,” said Joe, stepping inside. “I wanted to speak to you about it; the sooner it’s found the better I shall be pleased.”