He did not believe it, and he concluded to try the experiment to see if it was so.

Old Squills, the druggist, has a cat weighing about fifteen pounds, and Mr.Lamb, taking the animal into the back room, shut the door, opened the cat's mouth, and applied the poison.

One moment later a wild, unearthly "M-e-e-e-e-ow-ow-ow!" was emitted by the cat, and, to Mr.Lamb's intense alarm, the animal began swishing around the room with hair on end and tail in convulsive excitement, screeching like a fog-whistle.

Mr.Lamb is not certain, but he considers it a fair estimate to say that the cat made the entire circuit of the room, over chairs and under tables, seventy-four times every minute, and he is willing to swear to seventy times, without counting the occasional diversions made by the brute for the purpose of snatching at Mr.Lamb's pantaloons and hair.

Just as Mr.
Lamb had about made up his mind that the cat would conclude the gymnastic exercises by eating him, the animal dashed through the glass sash of the door into the shop, whisked two jars of licorice root and tooth-brushes off the counter, tore out the ipecac-bottle and four jugs of hair-dye, smashed a bottle of "Balm of Peru," alighted on the bonnet of a woman who was drinking soda-water, and after a few convulsions rolled over into a soap-box and died.
Mr.Lamb is now satisfied that a cat actually can be killed in the manner aforementioned, but he would be better satisfied if old Squills didn't insist upon collecting from him the price of those drugs and the glass sash.
* * * * * Last summer Peter's brother spent a few weeks with him.