The Tabby Terror : P G Wodehouse Through the window, of course. The cat, equally of course. I should like a private word with that cat. I suppose it must have been. Of course it was. Apart from the merely circumstantial evidence, which is strong enough to hang it off its own bat, we have absolute proof of its guilt. Just cast your eye over that butter. You follow me, Watson? The butter was submitted to inspection. In the very centre of it there was a footprint. _I_ traced his little footprints in the butter, said Montgomery. Now, is that the mark of a human foot? The jury brought in a unanimous verdict of guilty against the missing animal, and over a sorrowful cup of tea, eked out with bread and jam--butter appeared to be unpopular--discussed the matter in all its bearings. The cat had not been an inmate of Praters House for a very long time, and up till now what depredation it had committed had been confined to the official larder. Now, however, it had evidently got its hand in, and was about to commence operations upon a more extensive scale. The Tabby Terror had begun. Where would it end? The general opinion was that something would have to be done about it. No one seemed to know exactly what to do. Montgomery spoke darkly of bricks, bits of string, and horse-ponds. Smith rolled the word rat-poison luxuriously round his tongue. Shawyer, who was something of an expert on the range, babbled of air-guns.
Posted on: Thu, 16 Jan 2014 17:58:12 +0000
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