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Fire Island, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 14. Cheap Lodgings And Cats |
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_ CHAPTER FOURTEEN. CHEAP LODGINGS AND CATS Oliver Lane's double gun gave forth two sharp clicks as his thumb pressed back the cocks, and then, raising it to his shoulder, he waited, with his eyes searching among the thick leaves of the fig-tree, and trying to penetrate the orchids which clustered where the trunk forked and sent forth a dozen or so of minor boughs. But the snarling sound had ceased, and there was not the slightest rustle among the leaves to indicate the spot where the animal was hidden. But in imagination he could see some big, lithe, cat-like creature crouching there in the tree-fork, ready to spring, its head looking flattened with the ears drawn down, teeth gleaming in a fierce snarl, eyes flashing with green phosphorescent-like light, and sharp claws alternately protruded and withdrawn. All this was pictured by his active brain, but there was nothing visible save a gleam here and there, where the light from a fire-fly shone faintly from some leaf. A minute passed, all eager watchfulness, and at the slightest rustle indicating action on the part of the animal Lane would have drawn trigger. But all remained still, and the young man asked himself what he had better do. There were other trees about, but not one which offered such a satisfactory lodging, so easy to reach. "One oughtn't to mind a cat on the premises," he laughingly said to himself at last. "It would keep away nuisances, but this is too much of a cat, and wants to have all the bed to itself." He hesitated about firing into the tree to scare the beast, partly from the idea that it might irritate it into springing and taking him at a disadvantage, for as he stood there the light was behind him, so that he must be plain to his invisible enemy; then, in the smoke, he would be unable to make out his foe, and there would be no chance or time to take aim with the second barrel, and he knew what the result would be--the brute seizing him with teeth and claws, holding on fast while it tore him with its hind legs, as a cat does a rat. "A miserable end at the beginning of one's life," thought Lane. "Discretion's the better part of valour," he muttered. "I'll go back and find another tree." He stood for a few minutes longer, in the utter silence, listening for some movement from his enemy, but there was none. Then he began to hope that it had stolen away, and he moved slightly--drawing back to go in search of fresh lodgings. But at the first step there was a savage growl, such as might have been uttered by a magnified cat, and his fingers moved to press the trigger, as he stood firm, with the butt of the piece pressed to his shoulder, and his cheek against the stock. The snarling ceased and all was dead silence again, while, oddly enough, the old story of the Irish soldier came to Lane's mind: "Please, sor, I've caught a Tartar prisoner." "Bring him along, then." "Please, sor, he won't come." "Then come without him." "Please, sor, he won't let me." For, in spite of his excitement and its accompanying alarm, Lane could not help smiling at his predicament. He knew that if he beat a retreat the beast would spring at him, and taking into consideration the fact that he would be better off if he took the offensive and advanced, he at once acted upon the latter course. Taking a step forward, there was another savage snarl, and he aimed, as nearly as he could guess, at the spot whence it came, and waited, but the animal did not spring. He moved forward again and there was another snarl--a pause--a slight movement--another snarl and a scratching noise, which meant the tearing at the bark of the trunk upon which the animal crouched. "I must fire," thought Lane, and bending forward again, the snarling was resumed and he drew trigger. Almost simultaneously with the shot there was a fierce yell, and the young man received a tremendous blow in the chest, which knocked him backwards right amongst the thick growth; then came a loud rustling, the sound of the animal dashing through the tangle of undergrowth, and then all was still. "Killed, or escaped wounded?" muttered: Lane, as he gathered himself up, and stood with his gun ready to deliver the contents of the second barrel. But at the end of ten minutes or so there was no sound to break the silence, save a peculiar rending, tearing noise at a distance, followed by a rumbling boom, as of thunder under ground, and a sensation as of the earth quivering beneath his feet. This passed away, and feeling safe for the moment, Lane opened the breech of his piece, threw away the empty cartridge, and replaced it with one containing heavy shot before stepping up to the tree, and climbing up the trunk easily enough by the help of the cable-like parasite which enlaced its great buttresses. He had not far to mount, for the main trunk ended about twelve feet from the ground, and after a little feeling about amongst the dense orchid growth, he soon found a position where he could sit astride, and support his back in a comfortable half-reclining posture, perfectly safe from all risk of falling, so that there was every prospect of a good night's rest. "I hope they will not fidget about me very much," he said to himself, as he thought of his companions. Then, utterly tired out, and with his perceptions somewhat blunted by fatigue, he gave his friends the credit of thinking that he would be able to take care of himself, and leaned back. "Jolly," he muttered. "Cheap, comfortable lodgings if it don't rain, and the leopard, or whatever it was, does not come back to turn out this trespasser. Hah! how restful and nice. Can't fall: but I'm not going to cuddle this gun all night." He began to feel about for a place where he could lay the gun down safely, and at the end of a minute his hand touched something warm and furry, which began to stir about and utter a whining, mewing noise. He snatched away his hand in dread, then extended it again to begin feeling his discovery. "Pups!" he exclaimed. "Kittens I mean! Two of them; fine fat ones, too. They're harmless enough if their mother does not come back," and going on patting and feeling the little animals, he fully realised now the reason for their mother's ferocity, though he felt that it might have been their father. "No," he said, half aloud, "it must have been the mother, for she would make her nursery somewhere in hiding, for fear that papa should want to play Saturn, and eat his children up." The cubs whined softly a little, and nestled their soft heads against his hand. Then they sank down in the nest-like hollow of a decayed limb of the tree and went to sleep, while Oliver Lane found a tough vine-like stem behind which he was able to tuck his piece safely. And a few moments after, regardless of volcanoes, earthquakes, tidal waves, foul gases, and ferocious beasts, the young naturalist went off fast asleep, and did not stir till he heard, mingled with his dreams, the shrill shrieking of a flock of paroquets, which were climbing about among the smaller branches of the tree high overhead, and feasting upon the fast ripening figs. _ |
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