MONTMORENCY does not lack pluck; but there was something about the look of that cat that might have chilled the heart of the boldest dog. He stopped abruptly, and looked back at Tom.

Neither spoke; but the conversation was clearly as follows:—

The Cat: “Can I do anything for you?”

Montmorency: “No — no, thanks.”

The Cat: “Don’t you mind speaking, if you really want anything, you know.”

Montmorency (backing down the High Street): “Oh, no — not at all — certainly — don’t you trouble. I — I am afraid I’ve made a mistake. I thought I knew you. Sorry I disturbed you. Good morning.”

The Cat: “Good morning.”

Then the cat rose, and continued his trot; and Montmorency, fitting what he calls his tail carefully into its groove, came back to us, and took up an unimportant position in the rear.

To this day, if you say the word “Cats!” to Montmorency, he will visibly shrink and look up piteously at you, as if to say:

“Please don’t.”