ng down Scrimper's Alley. Surely the
Pied Piper of Hamelin was there, for it seemed that all the Cats in the
neighborhood were running toward the sound, though the Dogs, it must be
confessed, looked scornfully indifferent.

"Meat! Meat!" and louder; then the centre of attraction came in view--a
rough, dirty little man with a push-cart; while straggling behind him
were a score of Cats that joined in his cry with a sound nearly the
same as his own. Every fifty yards, that is, as soon as a goodly throng
of Cats was gathered, the push-cart stopped. The man with the magic
voice took out of the box in his cart a skewer on which were pieces of
strong-smelling boiled liver. With a long stick he pushed the pieces
off. Each Cat seized on one, and wheeling, with a slight depression of
the ears and a little tiger growl and glare, she rushed away with her
prize to devour it in some safe retreat.

"Meat! Meat!" And still they came to get their portions. All were well
known to the meat-man. There was Castiglione's Tiger; this was Jones's
Black; here was Pralitsky's "Torkershell," and this was Madame Danton's
White; there sneaked Blenkinshoff's Maltee, and that climbing on the
barrow was Sawyer's old Orange Billy, an impudent fraud that never had
had any financial backing,--all to be remembered and kept in account.
This one's owner was sure pay, a dime a week; that one's doubtful.
There was John Washee's Cat, that got only a small piece because John
was in arrears. Then there was the saloon-keeper's collared and
ribboned ratter, which got an extra lump because the 'barkeep' was
liberal; and the rounds-man's Cat, that brought no cash, but got
unusual consideration because the meat-man did. But there were others.
A black Cat with a white nose came rushing confidently with the rest,
only to be repulsed savagely. Alas! Pussy did not understand. She had
been a pensioner of the barrow for months. Why this unkind change? It
was beyond her comprehension. But the meat-man knew. Her mistress had
stopped payment. The meat-man kept no books but his memory, and it
never was at fault.

Outside this patrician 'four hundred' about the barrow, were other
Cats, keeping away from the push-cart because they were not on the
list, the Social Register as it were, yet fascinated by the heavenly
smell and the faint possibility of accidental good luck. Among these
hangers-on was a thin gray Slummer, a homeless Cat that lived by her
wits--slab-sided and not o