I sat under the piano beside Malta and
Bella, and we never stirred till the music was over; then we went
quietly away.
Malta was a beautiful cat--there was no doubt about it. While I was with
Jenkins I thought cats were vermin, like rats, and I chased them every
chance I got. Mrs, Jenkins had a cat, a gaunt, long-legged, yellow
creature, that ran whenever we looked at it.
Malta had been so kindly treated that she never ran from any one, except
from strange dogs. She knew they would be likely to hurt her. If they
came upon her suddenly, she faced them, and she was a pretty good
fighter when she was put to it. I once saw her having a brush with a big
mastiff that lived a few blocks from us, and giving him a good fright,
which just served him right.
I was shut up in the parlor. Some one had closed the door, and I could
not get out. I was watching Malta from the window, as she daintily
picked her way across the muddy street. She was such a soft, pretty,
amiable-looking cat. She didn't look that way, though, when the mastiff
rushed out of the alleyway at her.
She sprang back and glared at him like a little, fierce tiger.
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