The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

Matt ran down the middle of Main Street hollering, “Help! Murder!” He ran right to the blacksmith’s shop. The smith was the constable, you see. They telegraphed the county courthouse, and the coroner came galloping into town on horseback. He had one of those new automobiles, but he said he didn’t trust it. The silly thing was always breaking down.

The telephone operator rang up all the subscribers—there were nineteen telephones in Gattville—and everybody rushed out into the street. Folks couldn’t believe Mister Freddie would do such a thing. Nobody did a lick of work all day, seemed like. Except the saloon-keeper. Uncle Bill said the saloon was jam-packed.

Old Joshua stayed up all night making a coffin; he was the carpenter. And Miss Tillie—she was the dressmaker—lined it with velvet. Poor Mister Freddie! They laid him out in the bank lobby. They couldn’t lay him out at home because of the circumstances.

What were the circumstances?

What? . . . Why, his wife went clean out of her head when they told her what happened. She was always sickly . . . . I want a drink of water. There’s a jug on the table . . . . What was I saying?

About the funeral . . .

The stationmaster took orders for flowers and telegraphed Chicago. You never saw so many flowers! The whole town went to the funeral. Except Mister Freddie’s wife, of course, and the nurse that had to sit with her. The stationmaster couldn’t go because of the telegraph and the trains, but everybody else was there—even the men who hung around the saloon and the fat girl from the shack near the railroad tracks. All the women cried. The men got out their handkerchiefs, and there was so much nose blowing, nobody could hear the preacher. Miss Tillie fainted dead away.

Then the men carried the coffin up the hill to the cemetery. I had to walk through deep mud in my new shoes and hold up my skirts all the way. The blue jays were squawking in a big oak tree, scolding something down on the ground. That’s when I saw Conscience, the bank cat, walking along with the procession. She was picking her way through the weeds on the side of the road, trying to keep her white feet clean, I guess.

Where are my cough drops? Look on the table. My mouth gets dry when I talk. I talk to my cat mostly. Nobody comes to see me. My mother used to come and bring me chocolates, but she doesn’t come anymore.

Did they find out why Mister Freddie committed suicide?

What? Speak up! Don’t mumble! . . . The day after the funeral the bank opened again. Matt was dandied up in his Sunday best, looking like a high-muckety-muck. He thought he was going to be manager. I never liked Matt. He wore his hair flat on top. He thought he was such a swell!

They sent a new manager from the main bank. He wore those pinch-nose eyeglasses like the president’s, and he had a painful look on his face as if they were hurting him all the time. The customers knew the bank would never be the same. No smiles! No joshing! A black cloud settled over the town, seemed like. Worse than the grasshoppers. And then old Pinch-nose started finding out things.

I’m getting old. Where’s my shawl? Is it winter? I used to like winter, but it’s different now. I never hear sleigh bells anymore.

Excuse me, ma’am. You were talking about the new bank manager. What did he discover?

What? . . . Oh, there was a big hullabaloo! Some of the customers complained they were being charged for services. Mister Freddie had never charged them. Pinch-nose told them only big accounts get free services. Well! That started an awful row! They were the biggest accounts in town—the hotel, sawmills, granary, and all like that. Uncle Bill said he knew something was bunco. He did the bookkeeping for the hotel, and they had a big sum on deposit. Pinch-nose said the balance was only half that amount!

Then all kinds of strangers came to town and stayed at the hotel—examiners, inspectors, and I don’t know what-all. They found a heap of money missing. First it was $10,000, then $50,000, then $80,000. They said Mister Freddie kept two sets of books. They said the entries were in his handwriting.

Matt told the inspectors he knew Mister Freddie was stealing, and he warned him. But Mister Freddie said: “Never you mind. It will all come out right in the end.” Matt was afraid to say any more because Mister Freddie would fire him. That’s what he told the inspectors.

Eighty thousand dollars! Uncle Bill said it would take a man a whole lifetime to earn that much.

What had Mister Freddie done with the money?

What? Nobody could figure it out. His widow didn’t have it. Mr. Freddie didn’t gamble. He wasn’t a show-off. Why, he didn’t even drive a carriage—just a common buggy. And his sleigh coat was plain wool—not fur lined like the big nobs wore.