He put up his hands
and lifted me from his shoulder, and my heart sank as he said, "If I am
to catch my train, I fear I must say good-bye."
I believe that, in this hopeless crisis, my fur as usual was in my
favour. He rubbed his cheek against mine before putting me down, and
then said, "And you've not told me, after all, where poor Toots is
really going."
"We have not found a home for him yet, I assure you," said my mistress.
"Our washerwoman wants him, and she is a most kind-hearted and
respectable person, but she has got nine children, and----"
"Nine children!" ejaculated my friend, "My poor Toots, there will not be
an inch of that magnificent tail of yours left at the end of a week.
What cruelty to animals! Upon my word, I'd almost rather take Toots
myself, than think of him with a washerwoman and nine children. Eh,
Toots! would you like to come?"
I was on the carpet, rubbing against his--yes, long or short, they were
_his_, and he was kind to me!--rubbing, I say, against his legs. I could
get no impetus for a spring, but I scrambled straight up him as one
would scramble up a tree (my grandmother was a bird-catcher of the first
talent, and I inherit her claws), and uttered one pitiful mew.
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