‘You shall see.—­You observe how happy it is?’

‘It don’t seem happy.’

‘We’ve all our ways of seeming happy,—­that’s its way,’

The creature was behaving like a cat gone mad, dashing itself against the sides of its glass prison, leaping to and fro, and from side to side, squealing with rage, or with terror, or with both.  Perhaps it foresaw what was coming,—­there is no fathoming the intelligence of what we call the lower animals.

‘It’s a funny way.’

’We some of us have funny ways, beside cats.  Now, attention!  Observe this little toy,—­you’ve seen something of its kind before.  It’s a spring gun; you pull the spring-drop the charge into the barrel—­release the spring—­and the charge is fired.  I’ll unlock this safe, which is built into the wall.  It’s a letter lock, the combination just now, is “whisky,”—­you see, that’s a hint to you.  You’ll notice the safe is strongly made,—­it’s air-tight, fire-proof, the outer casing is of triple-plated drill-proof steel,—­the contents are valuable—­to me!—­and devilish dangerous,—­I’d pity the thief who, in his innocent ignorance, broke in to steal.  Look inside—­you see it’s full of balls,—­glass balls, each in its own little separate nest; light as feathers; transparent,—­you can see right through them.  Here are a couple, like tiny pills.  They contain neither dynamite, nor cordite, nor anything of the kind, yet, given a fair field and no favour, they’ll work more mischief than all the explosives man has fashioned.  Take hold of one—­you say your heart is broken!—­ squeeze this under your nose—­it wants but a gentle pressure—­and in less time than no time you’ll be in the land where they say there are no broken hearts.’

He shrunk back.

’I don’t know what you’re talking about.—­I don’t want the thing.  —­Take it away.’

‘Think twice,—­the chance may not recur.’

‘I tell you I don’t want it.’

‘Sure?—­Consider!’

‘Of course I’m sure!’

‘Then the cat shall have it.’

‘Let the poor brute go!’

’The poor brute’s going,—­to the land which is so near, and yet so far.  Once more, if you please, attention.  Notice what I do with this toy gun.  I pull back the spring; I insert this small glass pellet; I thrust the muzzle of the gun through the opening in the glass box which contains the Apostle’s cat,—­you’ll observe it fits quite close, which, on the whole, is perhaps as well for us.  —­I am about to release the spring.—­Close attention, please.—­ Notice the effect.’

‘Atherton, let the brute go!’

’The brute’s gone!  I’ve released the spring—­the pellet has been discharged—­it has struck against the roof of the glass box—­it has been broken by the contact,—­and, hey presto! the cat lies dead,—­and that in face of its nine lives.  You perceive how still it is,—­how still!  Let’s hope that, now, it’s really happy.  The cat which I choose to believe is Paul Lessingham’s has