box in his cart a skewer on which were pieces of strong-smelling
boiled liver. With a long stick he pushed the pieces off. Each
Cat seized on one, and wheeling, with a slight depression of the
ears and a little tiger growl and glare, she rushed away with her
prize to devour it in some safe retreat.

"Meat! Meat!" And still they came to get their portions. All were
well known to the meat-man. There was Castiglione's Tiger; this
was Jones's Black; here was Pralitsky's "Torkershell," and this
was Madame Danton's White; there sneaked Blenkinshoff's Maltee,
and that climbing on the barrow was Sawyer's old Orange Billy, an
impudent fraud that never had had any financial backing,--all to
be remembered and kept in account. This one's owner was sure pay,
a dime a week; that one's doubtful. There was John Washee's Cat,
that got only a small piece because John was in arrears. Then
there was the saloon-keeper's collared and ribboned ratter, which
got an extra lump because the 'barkeep' was liberal; and the
rounds-man's Cat, that brought no cash, but got unusual
consideration because the meat-man did. But there were others. A
black Cat with a white nose came rushing confidently with the
rest, only to be repulsed savagely. Alas! Pussy did not
understand. She had been a pensioner of the barrow for months.
Why this unkind change? It was beyond her comprehension. But the
meat-man knew. Her mistress had stopped payment. The meat-man
kept no books but his memory, and it never was at fault.

Outside this patrician 'four hundred' about the barrow, were
other Cats, keeping away from the push-cart because they were not
on the list, the Social Register as it were, yet fascinated by
the heavenly smell and the faint possibility of accidental good