The Wicked Flea. 59 



that it was all make-believe, so he bit me softly on the 

 muscles between thumb and forefinger and well, he 

 didn't scratch me very much. You must understand that 

 a cat doesn't know how sharp its claws are, and perhaps 

 it doesn't care a great deal, but Muff was very good to 

 me. I'll say that for him. He would fight till he saw 

 that he was going to lose his temper, and then he would 

 break away and stand off at one side, thinking. Some- 

 times he would return to the charge and sometimes he 

 would walk away. 1 know that his course of action 

 depended upon that moment of deliberation, and I have 

 often wondered what was in his mind. I could teli by the 

 little kink in the end of his tail, that flopped first this way 

 and then the t'other, that he was excited and full of fun, 

 but I could see by the expression of his face that he was 

 asking himself whether it quite became him, considering 

 who he was and all, to be on quite such hail-fellow-well- 

 met terms with a man. A little innocent amusement is 

 well enough in its way. but you cannot be too careful of 

 the company you keep. I suppose a cat frolicking with a 

 man and a man being mannerly to a negro must be very 

 much alike. In the realm of pure ethics no fault can be 

 found with either action, but in practice it seems some- 

 thing to be ashamed of. If the cat apparently said to 

 himself, "Oh, well, there's nobody looking, and I might 

 as well have another tussle with that hand," I felt flat- 

 tered by the lunge he made for me, just as the negro 

 must be pleased to be called Mister. But if he walked 

 away as dignifiedly as if he had never demeaned himself 

 by looking at the likes of me, I felt sheepish in spite of 

 myself. I never gave in for a minute that I wasn't as 

 good as he, for when I went back to my work it was 

 always with some such argument to myself as, ' This will 

 never do. I can't be fooling away my time playing with 



