That day, as he poured out the milk, cats of all ages and sizes and
colors purred in a softly padding multitude around his feet, and
he regarded them with love. There were tiger cats, Maltese cats,
black-and-white cats, black cats and white cats, tommies and females,
and his heart leaped to meet the pleading mews of all. The saucers were
surrounded. Little pink tongues lapped. "Pretty pussy! pretty pussy!"
cooed Jim, addressing them in general. He put on his overcoat and hat,
which he kept on a peg behind the door. Jim had an arm-chair in the
woodshed. He always sat there when he smoked; Susan Adkins demurred at
his smoking in the house, which she kept so nice, and Jim did not dream
of rebellion. He never questioned the right of a woman to bar tobacco
smoke from a house. Before leaving he refilled some of the saucers.
He was not sure that all of the cats were there; some might be afield,
hunting, and he wished them to find refreshment when they returned. He
stroked the splendid striped back of a great tiger tommy which filled
his armchair. This cat was his special pet. He fastened the outer shed
door with a bit of rope in order that it might not blow entirely open,
and yet allow his feline friends to pass, should they choose. Then he
went out.