The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

Percy was glad to see the party leave for their stroll. They returned all too soon, and it was apparent that the adventure had captured the imagination of Bill Diddleton.

“It’s a filthy shame to let that cemetery go to pot,” he said. “It would be fun to clear out the weeds, straighten the tombstones, and build a rail fence around it. I’d like to spend a week up here and fix it up.” A significant silence ensued, but he was not discouraged. “Hey, do any of those boys ever walk? What I mean, do you ever see any ghosts around here?”

His wife protested. “Bill! Don’t even suggest it!”

“I’ll bet I could go into a trance and get a couple of spirits to pay us a visit tonight.” He winked at Cornelius. “How about if I have a try at Morgan Black and Pigtail Beebe?”

They were sitting around the fireplace after dinner. Bill threw his head back, stiffened his body, rolled his eyes, and started to mumble. An unearthly silence descended on the chalet, except for the snapping of logs in the fireplace.

Margaret shivered, and in a moment Deedee screeched: “Stop it! It’s too spooky! It makes me nervous.”

Bill jumped up and stirred the fire. “Okay, how about a nightcap? We better hit the sack if we’re going fishing at five in the morning. Hey, Meg honey, I’m leaving the Lucky Seven on the bar to ripen overnight. The cat won’t get into it, will he?”

“Of course not,” Margaret said, and Percy—who had been watching the proceedings with disdain—turned his head away with a shudder.

After the others had retired he prowled around the chalet in the dark, stretching with a sense of relief. The fire had burned down to a dull glow. It was a peaceful moonless night with nothing beyond the chalet windows but black sky, black lake, and black pine trees.

Percy settled down on the hearth rug and was moistly licking his fur in the warmth of the waning fire when a sound in the top of the pines made him pause with his tongue extended. It was like the moaning of the upper branches that gave warning of a storm, yet his whiskers told him this had nothing to do with weather. As he peered at the black windows a presence came through the glass. It came gently and soundlessly. A gust of chilled air reached Percy’s damp fur.

The presence that had entered the chalet began to utter a low, painful lament, swirling all the while in a formless mass. Then, as Percy watched with interest, it took shape—a beefy human shape.

Apparitions were nothing new to Percy. As a young cat in England he had once tried to rub his back against some ghostly ankles and had found nothing there. This one was larger and rougher than the silver tabby had ever seen. As it became more clearly defined he observed a figure with a beard and a fuzzy cap, a burly jacket, and breeches stuffed into heavy boots. Click-click-click went the boots on the polished wood floor.

“Holy Mackinaw!” said a hollow, reverberating voice. “What kind of a shanty would this be?” The apparition looked in wonder at the luxurious hearth rug, the brass ornaments on the fieldstone chimney breast, the glass-topped coffee table with half-finished jigsaw puzzle.

Percy settled down comfortably to watch, tucking his legs under his body for warmth. A musty dampness pervaded the room. Click-click-click again. He turned his head to see another figure materializing behind him. Though dressed in the same rough clothing, it was smaller than the first and beardless, and it had a rope of hair hanging down its back.

“Pigtail Beebe!” roared the first apparition in a harsh voice without substance. It was a sound that only a cat could hear.

“I’m haywire if it ain’t Morgan Black!” exclaimed the other in the same kind of thundering whisper. The two loggers stood staring at each other with legs braced wide apart and arms hanging loose. “I got a thirst fit to drain a swamp,” Pigtail complained.

“Me, I got a head as big as an ox,” said Morgan, groaning and touching his temples.

“Likely we was both oiled up when we got sluiced. How’d you get yours, you orie-eyed ol’ coot?”

“A jumped-up brawl in the Red Keg Saloon.” Morgan sat down wearily on the pine woodbox, removing his head and resting it on his lap, the better to massage his temples.

Pigtail said with a ghostly chuckle: “They got me on the Sawdust Flats. I’d had me a few drinks of Eagle Sweat and was on the way to Sadie Lou’s to get m’teeth fixed, as the sayin’ goes, when along come this bandy-legged Blue Noser, and I give him a squirt o’ B&L Black right in the eye. ‘Fore I knowed it, seven o’ them Blue Nosers come at me. When they got through puttin’ their boots to m’hide, I had the best case o’ smallpox you ever did see . . . . Never did get to Sadie Lou’s.”

“That was in ’61,” said Morgan’s head noiselessly. “Good drive on the river that spring.”

“An’ I was a catty man on the logs. I could ride a soap bubble to shore, I could.”

“Still braggin’.”