Every now and then Sandy must have felt alarmed about his health or his figure, for he ate less, and walked gravely and sulkily up and down the verandah for hours, but as soon as he considered himself out of danger, he relapsed into all his self-indulgent ways.

No one ventured to offer Sandy anything but the choicest meats, and he was wont to sit up and beg like a dog for a savoury tit-bit.

But he would revenge himself on you afterwards for the humiliation, you might be sure.
What always appeared to me so odd, was that in spite of his known and unblushing selfishness, Sandy used to be a great favourite, and we all vied with each other for the honour of his notice.

Now why was this?
If boundless time and space were at our disposal, we might go deeply into the question and work it out, but as the dimensions of this volume are not elastic, the impending social essay shall be postponed, and we will confine ourselves to a brief description of Sandy's outer cat.

He was of a pure breed, far removed from the long-legged, lanky race of ordinary station-cats, who from time to time disappeared into the bush and contracted alliances with the still more degraded specimens of their class who had long been wild among the scrub.