LITMIR.BIZ

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Poll!” said the parrot, giving its bill a preliminary strop on its perch. “Scratch poor Polly!”

      It bent its head against the bars, and waited patiently to play off what it had always regarded as the most consummate practical joke in existence. The first doubt it had ever had about it occurred when the mate came forward and obligingly scratched it with the stem of his pipe. It was a wholly unforeseen development, and the parrot, ruffling its feathers, edged along its perch and brooded darkly at the other end of it.

      Opinion before the mast was also against the new arrival, the general view being that the wild jealousy which raged in the bosom of the ship’s cat would sooner or later lead to mischief.

      “Old Satan don’t like it,” said the cook, shaking his head. “The blessed bird hadn’t been aboard ten minutes before Satan was prowling around. The blooming image waited till he was about a foot off the cage, and then he did the perlite and asked him whether he’d like a glass o’ beer. I never see a cat so took aback in all my life. Never.”

      “There’ll be trouble between ‘em,” said old Sam, who was the cat’s special protector, “mark my words.”

      “I’d put my money on the parrot,” said one of the men confidently. “It’s ‘ad a crool bit out of the mate’s finger. Where ‘ud the cat be agin that beak?”

      “Well, you’d lose your money,” said Sam. “If you want to do the cat a kindness, every time you see him near that cage cuff his ‘ed.”

      The crew being much attached to the cat, which had been presented to them when a kitten by the mate’s wife, acted upon the advice with so much zest that for the next two days the indignant animal was like to have been killed with kindness. On the third day, however, the parrot’s cage being on the cabin table, the cat stole furtively down, and, at the pressing request of the occupant itself, scratched its head for it.

      The skipper was the first to discover the mischief, and he came on deck and published the news in a voice which struck a chill to all hearts.

      “Where’s that black devil got to?” he yelled.

      “Anything wrong, sir?” asked Sam anxiously.

      “Come and look here,” said the skipper. He led the way to the cabin, where the mate and one of the crew were already standing, shaking their heads over the parrot.

      “What do you make of that?” demanded the skipper fiercely.

      “Too much dry food, sir,” said Sam, after due deliberation.

      “Too much what?” bellowed the skipper.

      “Too much dry food,” repeated Sam firmly. “A parrot—a grey parrot—wants plenty o’ sop. If it don’t get it, it moults.”

      “It’s had too much CAT” said the skipper fiercely, “and you know it, and overboard it goes.”

      “I don’t believe it was the cat, sir,” interposed the other man; “it’s too soft-hearted to do a thing like that.”

      “You can shut your jaw,” said the skipper, reddening. “Who asked you to come down here at all?”

      “Nobody saw the cat do it,” urged the mate.

      The skipper said nothing, but, stooping down, picked up a tail feather from the floor, and laid it on the table. He then went on deck, followed by the others, and began calling, in seductive tones, for the cat. No reply forth coming from the sagacious animal, which had gone into hiding, he turned to Sam, and bade him call it.

      “No, sir, I won’t ‘ave no ‘and in it,” said the old man. “Putting aside my liking for the animal, I’M not going to ‘ave anything to do with the killing of a black cat.”

      “Rubbish!” said the skipper.

      “Very good, sir,” said Sam, shrugging his shoulders, “you know best, o’ course. You’re eddicated and I’m not, an’ p’raps you can afford to make a laugh o’ such things. I knew one man who killed a black cat an’ he went mad. There’s something very pecooliar about that cat o’ ours.”

      “It knows more than we do,” said one of the crew, shaking his head. “That time you—I mean we—ran the smack down, that cat was expecting of it ‘ours before. It was like a wild thing.”

      “Look at the weather we’ve ‘ad—look at the trips we’ve made since he’s been aboard,” said the old man. “Tell me it’s chance if you like, but I KNOW better.”

      The skipper hesitated. He was a superstitious man even for a sailor, and his weakness was so well known that he had become a sympathetic receptacle for every ghost story which, by reason of its crudeness or lack of corroboration, had been rejected by other experts. He was a perfect reference library for omens, and his interpretations of dreams had gained for him a widespread reputation.

      “That’s all nonsense,” he said, pausing uneasily; “still, I only want to be just. There’s nothing vindictive about me, and I’ll have no hand in it myself. Joe, just tie a lump of coal to that cat and heave it overboard.”

      “Not me,” said the cook, following Sam’s lead, and working up a shudder. “Not for fifty pun in gold. I don’t want to be haunted.”

      “The parrot’s a little better now, sir,” said one of the men, taking advantage of his hesitation, “he’s opened one eye.”

      “Well, I only want to be just,” repeated the skipper. “I won’t do anything in a hurry, but, mark my words, if the parrot dies that cat goes overboard.”

      Contrary to expectations, the bird was still alive when London was reached, though the cook, who from his connection with the cabin had suddenly reached a position of unusual importance, reported great loss of strength and irritability of temper. It was still alive, but failing fast on the day they were to put to sea again; and the fo’c’sle, in preparation for the worst, stowed their pet away in the paint-locker, and discussed the situation.

      Their council was interrupted by the mysterious behaviour of the cook, who, having gone out to lay in a stock of bread, suddenly broke in upon them more in the manner of a member of a secret society than a humble but useful unit of a ship’s company.

      “Where’s the cap’n?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, as he took a seat on the locker with the sack of bread between his knees.

      “In the cabin,” said Sam, regarding his antics with some disfavour. “What’s wrong, cookie?”

      “What d’ yer think I’ve got in here?” asked the cook, patting the bag.

      The obvious reply to this question was, of course, bread; but as it was known that the cook had departed specially to buy some, and that he could hardly ask a question involving such a simple answer, nobody gave it.

      “It come to me all of a sudden,” said the cook, in a thrilling whisper. “I’d just bought the bread and left the shop, when I see a big black cat, the very image of ours, sitting on a doorstep. I just stooped down to stroke its ‘ed, when it come to me.”

      “They will sometimes,” said one of the seamen.

      “I don’t mean that,” said the cook, with the contempt of genius. “I mean the idea did. Ses I to myself, ‘You might be old Satan’s brother by the look of you; an’ if the cap’n wants to kill a cat, let it be you,’ I ses. And with that, before it could say Jack Robinson, I picked it up by the scruff o’ the neck and shoved it in the bag.”

      “What, all in along of our bread?” said the previous interrupter, in a pained voice.

      “Some of yer are ‘ard ter please,” said the cook, deeply offended.

      “Don’t mind him, cook,” said the admiring Sam. “You’re a masterpiece, that’s what you are.”

      “Of course, if any of you’ve got a better plan”—said the cook generously.

      “Don’t talk rubbish, cook,” said Sam; “fetch the two cats out and put ‘em

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