his unpleasant-looking thing, led it
around the stable, and, by vigorous manipulations, succeeded in making
it wriggle realistically; but he was not satisfied, and, dropping
the string listlessly, sat down in the wheelbarrow to ponder. Penrod
sometimes proved that there were within him the makings of an artist;
he had become fascinated by an idea, and could not be content until
that idea was beautifully realized. He had meant to create a big, long,
ugly-faced horrible black snake with which to interest Della and her
friend, Mrs. Cullen; but he felt that results, so far, were too crude
for exploitation. Merely to lead the pinned stockings by a string was
little to fulfill his ambitious vision.

Finally, he rose from the wheelbarrow.

"If I only had a cat!" he said dreamily.

CHAPTER XIX. CREATIVE ART

He went forth, seeking.

The Schofield household was catless this winter but there was a nice
white cat at the Williams'. Penrod strolled thoughtfully over to the
Williams's yard.

He was entirely successful, not even having been seen by the sensitive
coloured woman, aged fifty-three years and four months.

But still Penrod was thoughtful. The artist within him was unsatisfied
with his materials: and upon his return to the stable he placed the
cat beneath an overturned box, and once more sat down in the inspiring
wheelbarrow, pondering. His expression, concentrated and yet a little
anxious, was like that of a painter at work upon a portrait that may or
may not turn out to be a masterpiece. The cat did not disturb him by her
purring, though she was, indeed, already purring. She was one of those
cozy, youngish cats--plump, even a little full-bodied, perhaps, and
rather conscious of the figure--that are entirely conventional and
domestic by nature, and will set up a ladylike housekeeping anywhere
without making a fuss about it. If there be a fault in these cats,
overcomplacency might be the name for it; they err a shade too sure
of themselves, and their assumption that the world means to treat them
respectfully has just a little taint of the grande dame. Consequently,
they are liable to great outbreaks of nervous energy from within,
engendered by the extreme surprises that life sometimes holds in store
for them. They lack the pessimistic imagination.

Mrs. Williams's cat was content upon a strange floor and in the
confining enclosure of a strange box. She purred for a time, then
trustfully fell asleep. 'Twas well