Given a house, five men, and an ironbound
routine of life, and it is scarcely necessary to say that the advent
of a somewhat fussy elderly woman, an impulsive young girl, and a
very-much-alive small cat will make some difference. As to Spunk's
name--it was not Mrs. Stetson's fault that even that was left
undisturbed.
Mrs. Stetson early became acquainted with Spunk. She was introduced
to him, indeed, on the night of her arrival--though fortunately not
at table: William had seen to it that Spunk did not appear at dinner,
though to accomplish this the man had been obliged to face the amazed
and grieved indignation of the kitten's mistress.
"But I don't see how any one CAN object to a nice clean little cat at
the table," Billy had remonstrated tearfully.
"I know; but--er--they do, sometimes," William had stammered; "and this
is one of the times. Aunt Hannah would never stand for it--never!"
"Oh, but she doesn't know Spunk," Billy had observed then, hopefully.
"You just wait until she knows him."
Mrs. Stetson began to "know" Spunk the next day. The immediate source of
her knowledge was the discovery that Spunk had found her ball of black
knitting yarn, and had delightedly captured it. Not that he was content
to let it remain where it was--indeed, no. He rolled it down the stairs,
batted it through the hall to the drawing-room, and then proceeded to
'chasse' with it in and out among the legs of various chairs and tables,
ending in one grand whirl that wound the yarn round and round his small
body, and keeled him over half upon his back.
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