B., since I was suffering from a quinsy, contracted mainly by my
being sent about the house o' nights in the usual scanty drapery, had
to be sworn in as her own special constable.
"Henry, Henry!" she whispered upon this occasion, "there's a
dreadful cat in the room."
"Pooh, pooh!" I gasped; "it's only in the street; I've heard the
wretches. Perhaps they are on the tiles."
"No, Henry. There, I don't want you to talk, since it makes you
cough; only listen to me. What am I to do, Henry? I'll stake my
existence that there's a---- Ugh, what's that?"
And, indeed, some heavy body did there and then jump upon our bed,
and off again at my wife's interjection, with extreme agility. I
thought Mrs. B. would have had a fit, but she didn't. She told me,
dear soul, upon no account to venture into the cold with my bad
throat. She would turn out the beast herself, single-handed. We
arranged that she was to take hold of my fingers, and retain them,
until she reached the fireplace, where she would find a shovel or
other offensive weapon fit for the occasion. During the progress of
this expedition, however, so terrible a caterwauling broke forth, as
it seemed, from the immediate neighbourhood of the fender, that my
disconcerted helpmate made a most precipitate retreat.
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