Gladiator Philip Wylie (learn to read books .TXT) đ
- Author: Philip Wylie
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Ten minutes passed. Danner cleared his throat. Then she spoke. âSo. Youâve done it?â
âDone what?â he asked innocently.
âYouâve made all this rubbish youâve been talking about strengthâ âhappen to that kitten.â
âIt wasnât rubbish.â
âEvidently.â
At that crisis Mr. Dannerâs toe trembled and the kitten, believing it a new toy, curled its paws over the shoe. There was a sound of tearing leather, and the shoe came apart. Fortunately the foot inside it was not hurt severely. Danner did not dare to budge. He heard his wifeâs startled inhalation.
Mrs. Danner did not resume her sewing. She breathed heavily and slow fire crept into her cheeks. The enormity of the crime overcame her. And she perceived that the hateful laboratory had invaded her portion of the house. Moreover, her sturdy religion had been desecrated. Danner read her thoughts.
âDonât be angry,â he said. Beads of perspiration gathered on his brow.
âAngry!â The kitten stirred at the sound of her voice. âAngry! And why not? Here you defied God and manâ âand made that creature of the devil. Youâve overrun my house. Youâre a wicked, wicked man. And as for that cat, I wonât have it. I wonât stand for it.â
âWhat are you going to do?â
Her voice rose to a scream. âDo! Do! Plentyâ âand right here and now.â She ran to the kitchen and came back with a broom. She flung the front door wide. Her blazing eyes rested for a moment on the kitten. To her it had become merely an obnoxious little animal. âScat! You little demon!â The broom came down on the catâs back with a jarring thud.
After that, chaos. A ball of fur lashed through the air. Whatnot, bird cage, bookcase, morris chair flew asunder. Then the light went out. In the darkness a comet, a hurricane, ricochetted through the room. Then there was a crash mightier than the others, followed by silence.
When Danner was able, he picked himself up and lighted the lamp. His wife lay on the floor in a dead faint. He revived her. She sat up and wept silently over the wreck of her parlour. Danner paled. A round holeâ âa hole that could have been made by nothing but a solid cannon shotâ âshowed where the kitten had left the room through the wall.
Mrs. Dannerâs eyes were red-rimmed. Her breath came jerkily. With incredulous little gestures she picked herself up and gazed at the hole. A draught blew through it. Mr. Danner stuffed it with a rug.
âWhat are we going to do?â she said.
âIf it comes backâ âweâll call it Samson.â
Andâ âas soon as Samson felt the gnawing of appetite, he returned to his rightful premises. Mrs. Danner fed him. Her face was pale and her hands trembled. Horror and fascination fought with each other in her soul as she offered the food. Her husband was in his classroom, nervously trying to fix his wits on the subject of the day.
âKitty, kitty, poor little kitty,â she said.
Samson purred and drank a quart of milk. She concealed her astonishment from herself. Mrs. Dannerâs universe was undergoing a transformation.
At three in the afternoon the kitten scratched away the screen door on the back porch and entered the house. Mrs. Danner fed it the supper meat.
Danner saw it when he returned. It was chasing flies in the yard. He stood in awe. The cat could spring twenty or thirty feet with ease. Then the sharp spur of dread entered him. Suppose someone saw and asked questions. He might be arrested, taken to prison. Something would happen. He tried to analyze and solve the problem. Night came. The cat was allowed to go out unmolested. In the morning the town of Indian Creek rose to find that six large dogs had been slain during the dark hours. A panther had come down from the mountains, they said. And Danner lectured with a dry tongue and errant mind.
It was Will Hoag, farmer of the fifth generation, resident of the environs of Indian Creek, churchgoer, and hard-cider addict, who bent himself most mercilessly on the capture of the alleged panther. His chicken-house suffered thrice and then his sheepfold. After four such depredations he cleaned his rifle and undertook a vigil from a spot behind the barn. An old moon rose late and illuminated his pastures with a blue glow. He drank occasionally from a jug to ward off the evil effects of the night air.
Some time after twelve his attention was distracted from the jug by stealthy sounds. He moved toward them. A hundred yards away his cows were huddled togetherâ âa heap of dun shadows. He saw a form which he mistook for a weasel creeping toward the cows. As he watched, he perceived that the small animal behaved singularly unlike a weasel. It slid across the earth on taut limbs, as if it was going to attack the cows. Will Hoag repressed a guffaw.
Then the farmerâs short hair bristled. The cat sprang and landed on the neck of the nearest cow and clung there. Its paw descended. There was a horrid sound of ripping flesh, a moan, the thrashing of hoofs, a blot of dribbling blood, and the cat began to gorge on its prey.
Hoag believed that he was intoxicated, that delirium tremens had overtaken him. He stood rooted to the spot. The marauder ignored him. Slowly, unbelievingly, he raised his rifle and fired. The bullet knocked the cat from its perch. Mr. Hoag went forward and picked it up.
âGod Almighty,â he whispered. The bullet had not penetrated the catâs skin. And, suddenly, it wriggled in his hand. He dropped it. A flash of fur in the moonlight, and he was alone with the corpse of his Holstein.
He contemplated profanity, he considered kneeling in prayer. His joints turned to
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