and then he would desert his oldest friend without hesitation. I
don't suppose the wildest young colley-pup ever dreamed of chasing
or worrying Sandy, who would not have stirred from his warm corner
by the fire for Snarleyow himself. Every now and then Sandy must
have felt alarmed about his health or his figure, for he ate less,
and walked gravely and sulkily up and down the verandah for hours,
but as soon as he considered himself out of danger, he relapsed into
all his self-indulgent ways. No one ventured to offer Sandy
anything but the choicest meats, and he was wont to sit up and beg
like a dog for a savoury tit-bit. But he would revenge himself on
you afterwards for the humiliation, you might be sure.

What always appeared to me so odd, was that in spite of his known
and unblushing selfishness, Sandy used to be a great favourite, and
we all vied with each other for the honour of his notice. Now why
was this? If boundless time and space were at our disposal, we
might go deeply into the question and work it out, but as the
dimensions of this volume are not elastic, the impending social
essay shall be postponed, and we will confine ourselves to a brief
description of Sandy's outer cat. He was of a pure breed, far
removed from the long-legged, lanky race of ordinary station-cats,
who from time to time disappeared into the bush and contracted
alliances with the still more degraded specimens of their class who
had long been wild among the scrub. No: Sandy came of "pur sang,"
and held his small square head erect, with a haughty carriage as
beseemed his ancestry. His fur was really beautiful, a sort of
tortoiseshell red, the lighter stripes repeating exactly the
different golden tints of a fashionable chignon. In early youth,
though it is difficult to imagine Sandy ever a playful kitten, his
tail had been curtailed to the length of three inches, and this