The Slum Cat 
in the same old fence and over a wall to her 
junk-yard back of the bird-cellar—yes, back 
into the very cracker-box where she was born. 
Oh, if the Fifth Avenue family could only — 
have seen her in her native Orient ! 
After a long rest she came quietly down 
from the cracker-box toward the steps leading 
to the cellar, engaged in her old-time pursuit 
of seeking for eatables. The door opened, and 
there stood the negro. He shouted to the 
bird-man inside: 
“Say, boss, come hyar. Ef dere ain’t dat 
dar Royal Ankalostan am comed back !”’ 
Jap came in time to see the Cat jumping the 
wall. They called loudly and in the most 
seductive, wheedling tones: ‘“ Pussy, Pussy, 
poor Pussy! Come, Pussy!” But Pussy was 
not prepossessed in their favor, and disappeared 
to forage in her old-time haunts. 
The Royal Analostan had been a windfall 
for Jap—had been the means of adding many 
comforts to the cellar and several prisoners to 
the cages. It was now of the utmost impor- 
tance to recapture her majesty. Stale meat- 
offal and other infallible lures were put out 
48 
