But he was a good-natured creature, and now and then, for a change, I
followed him into the saddle-room. I am thankful to say I have never
caught mice except for amusement, and a cat of daintier tastes does not
exist. But one has inherited instincts--and the musty, fusty, mousey
smell of the room did excite me a little. Besides, I practised my steps
among the blacking-bottles.
I was on the top of the most tottering part of the pile one afternoon,
when I saw a pair of bead-like eyes, and--yes, I could swear to it--a
torn ear. But before I could spring to the ground they had vanished
behind the corn-chest.
This was how it came about that when the Captain's room was cosiest, and
he and his friends were kindest, I used to steal away from luxuries
which are dear to every fibre of my constitution, and pat hastily down
to the dirty hole, where Terence accumulated old rubbish and misused and
mislaid valuables--in the wild hope that I might hear, smell, or see the
ragged-eared enemy of my peace.
What hours I have wasted, now blinking with sleep, now on the alert at
sounds like the revelries of mocking mice.
When I say that I have even risked wet feet, on a damp afternoon, to get
there--every cat will understand how wild must have been the
infatuation!
I tried to reason myself out of it.
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