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The degeneration of Thomas Henry
A Harlem tragedy
Dusk
The lost sanjak
The man who sought
The white man’s way
The blue cross
The three tools of Death
Mammon and the archer
The adventure of the creeping man
THE most respectable cat I have ever known was Thomas Henry. His original name was Thomas, but it seemed absurd to call him that. The family at Hawarden would as soon think of addressing Mr. Gladstone as ‘‘Bill’’. He came to us from the Reform Club, via the butcher, and the moment I saw him I felt that, of all the clubs in London, that was the club he must have come from. Its atmosphere of solid dignity and petrified conservatism seemed to cling to him. Why he left the club I am unable, at this distance of time, to remember positively, but I am inclined to think that it came about owing to a difference with the new chef, an overbearing personage, who wanted all the fire to himself. The butcher, hearing of the quarrel, and knowing us as a catless family, suggested a way out of the impasse that was welcomed by both cat and cook. The parting between them, I believe, was purely formal; and Thomas arrived prejudiced in our favor.
My wife, the moment she saw him, suggested Henry as a more suitable name. It struck me that the combination of the two would be still more appropriate, and accordingly, in the privacy of the domestic circle, Thomas Henry he was called. When speaking of him to friends, we generally alluded to him as Thomas Henry, Esquire.
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“Your cat killed him yesterday,” continued the man; “it’s a burning shame.”
“My cat has killed him three times,” I replied. “He was killed on Saturday as Mrs. Hedger’s cat; on Monday he was killed for Mrs. Myers. I was not quite positive on Monday; but I had my suspicions, and I made notes. Now I recognize him. You take my advice and bury him before he breeds a fever. I don’t care how many lives a cat has got, I only pay for one.”
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