Even in his sleep, this gave him an air of
wistfulness.
Thus, being asleep in a nook behind the metal refuse-can, when
the strange cat ventured to ascend the steps of the porch, his
appearance was so unwarlike that the cat felt encouraged to
extend its field of reconnaissance for the cook had been
careless, and the backbone of a three-pound whitefish lay at the
foot of the refuse-can.
This cat was, for a cat, needlessly tall, powerful, independent
and masculine. Once, long ago, he had been a roly-poly
pepper-and-salt kitten; he had a home in those days, and a name,
"Gipsy," which he abundantly justified. He was precocious in
dissipation. Long before his adolescence, his lack of domesticity
was ominous, and he had formed bad companionships. Meanwhile, he
grew so rangy, and developed such length and power of leg and
such traits of character, that the father of the little girl who
owned him was almost convincing when he declared that the young
cat was half broncho and half Malay pirate--though, in the light
of Gipsy's later career, this seems bitterly unfair to even the
lowest orders of bronchos and Malay pirates.
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