"How did you sleep last night, Sir Hurricane?" said the artful Ned.
"Why, pretty well; considering," said the admiral, "I was not
tormented by that old tom cat. D----n me, Sir, that fellow was like
the Grand Signior, and he kept his seraglio in the garret, over my
bed-room, instead of being at his post in the kitchen, killing the
rats that are running about like coach-horses."
"Sir Hurricane," said I, "it's always unlucky to sailors, if they
meddle with cats. You will have a gale of wind, in some shape or
another, before long."
These words were hardly uttered, when, as if by preconcerted
arrangement, the door opened, and in sailed Mrs Jellybag, the
housekeeper, an elderly woman, somewhere in the latitude of fifty-five
or sixty years. With a low courtesy and contemptuous toss of her head,
she addressed Sir Hurricane Humbug.
"Pray, Sir Hurricane, what have you been doing to my cat?"
The admiral, who prided himself in putting any one who applied to
him on what he called the wrong scent, endeavoured to play off Mrs
Jellybag in the same manner.
"What have I done to your cat, my dear Mrs Jellybag? Why, my dear
Madam" (said he, assuming an air of surprise), "what _should_ I do to
your cat?"
"You _should_ have left him alone, Mr Admiral; that cat was my
property; if my master permits you to ill-treat the poultry, that's
his concern; but that cat was mine, Sir Hurricane--mine, every inch of
him. The animal has been ill-treated, and sits moping in the corner
of the fireplace, as if he was dying; he'll never be the cat he was
again.
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