52 BOMBAY DUCKS 
Even nowadays many people declare that they cannot 
bear to be in the same room as a cat, a black one for 
preference ; they assert that they can feel an uncanny 
presence, even though the quadruped be not visible. 
Personally, I have no objection to the company of a 
well-behaved cat, but “poor puss” is not an animal 
which appeals to me. I have lived too long in London 
to cherish any friendly feelings towards the feline race. 
Too often have I been awakened by the caterwaulings 
which nightly emanated from some roof of bad repute. 
We were unfortunate enough to have as our next- 
door neighbour a lady novelist. “The woman writer,” 
says Mr. Crosland, “is an offence in the sight of 
Olympus.” This sentiment seems scarcely polite, and 
I am not prepared to subscribe to it until I have dis- 
covered whether every feminine author keeps a Cats’ 
Home, as the lady writer in question did. The good 
woman loved cats. 
Now, to all those who are similarly disposed towards 
pussy I would respectfully say: “Remember that cats 
are not what they seem. During the day they look as 
though butter would not melt in their mouths; they 
appear to be paragons of virtue, models of saintliness. 
But what a difference in the night! Then they become 
fiends incarnate. 
“Remember, ye possessors of cats, that you get the 
benefit of your pets by day, but your neighbours get it 
by night. You cannot keep cats and be popular.” 
To the neighbours I would say: “Keep an air gun.” 
I speak as one having special knowledge. I lived for 
years next door to the aforesaid Cats’ Home, and 
