Dan stopped short in his unusual fit of communicativeness.
“Tell about the cats, please,” said Demi, feeling that he had asked
an unpleasant question, and sorry for it.
“Nothing to tell; only she had a lot of ’em, and kept ’em in a barrel
nights; and I used to go and tip over the barrel sometimes, and let
’em out all over the house, and then she’d scold, and chase ’em and
put ’em in again, spitting and yowling like fury.”
“Was she good to them?” asked Demi, with a hearty child’s laugh,
pleasant to hear.
“Guess she was. Poor old soul! she took in all the lost and sick cats
in the town; and when anybody wanted one they went to Marm
Webber, and she let ’em pick any kind and color they wanted, and
only asked ninepence, she was glad to have her pussies get a good
home.”
“I should like to see Marm Webber. Could I, if I went to that
place?”
“She’s dead. All my folks are,” said Dan, briefly.
“I’m sorry;” and Demi sat silent a minute, wondering what subject
would be safe to try next. He felt delicate about speaking of the
departed lady, but was very curious about the cats, and could not
resist asking softly
“Did she cure the sick ones?”
“Sometimes. One had a broken leg, and she tied it up to a stick,
and it got well; and another had fits, and she doctored it with yarbs
till it was cured. But some of ’em died, and she buried ’em; and
when they couldn’t get well, she killed ’em easy.”
“How?” asked Demi, feeling that there was a peculiar charm about
this old woman, and some sort of joke about the cats, because Dan
was smiling to himself.
“A kind lady, who was fond of cats, told her how, and gave her
some stuff, and sent all her own pussies to be killed that way.
Marm used to put a sponge wet with ether, in the bottom of an old
boot, then poke puss in head downwards. The ether put her to
sleep in a jiffy, and she was drowned in warm water before she
woke up.”
“I hope the cats didn’t feel it. I shall tell Daisy about that. You have
known a great many interesting things, haven’t you?” asked Demi,
and fell to meditating on the vast experience of a boy who had run
away more than once, and taken care of himself in a big city.
“Wish I hadn’t sometimes.”
“Why? Don’t remembering them feel good?”
“No.”
“It’s very singular how hard it is to manage your mind,” said Demi,
clasping his hands round his knees, and looking up at the sky as if
for information upon his favorite topic.
“Devilish hard no, I don’t mean that;” and Dan bit his lips, for the
forbidden word slipped out in spite of him, and he wanted to be
more careful with Demi than with any of the other boys.
“I’ll play I didn’t hear it,” said Demi; “and you won’t do it again, I’m
sure.”
“Not if I can help it. That’s one of the things I don’t want to
remember. I keep pegging away, but it don’t seem to do much
good;” and Dan looked discouraged.
“Yes, it does. You don’t say half so many bad words as you used
to; and Aunt Jo is pleased, because she said it was a hard habit to
break up.”
“Did she?” and Dan cheered up a bit.
“You must put swearing away in your fault-drawer, and lock it up;
that’s the way I do with my badness.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dan, looking as if he found Demi
almost as amusing as a new sort of cockchafer or beetle.
“Well, it’s one of my private plays, and I’ll tell you, but I think
you’ll laugh at it,” began Demi, glad to hold forth on this congenial
subject. “I play that my mind is a round room, and my soul is a
little sort of creature with wings that lives in it. The walls are full
of shelves and drawers, and in them I keep my thoughts, and my
goodness and badness, and all sorts of things. The goods I keep