He seldom slept in the same place twice in succession, and though he was wanted by the police, he was not found.
In appearance he did not lack distinction of an ominous sort; the slow, rhythmic, perfectly controlled mechanism of his tail, as he impressively walked abroad, was incomparably sinister.

This stately and dangerous walk of his, his long, vibrant whiskers, his scars, his yellow eye, so ice-cold, so fire-hot, haughty as the eye of Satan, gave him the deadly air of a mousquetaire duellist.

His soul was in that walk and in that eye; it could be read--the soul of a bravo of fortune, living on his wits and his velour, asking no favours and granting no quarter.
Intolerant, proud, sullen, yet watchful and constantly planning--purely a militarist, believing in slaughter as in a religion, and confident that art, science, poetry and the good of the world were happily advanced thereby--Gipsy had become, though technically not a wildcat, undoubtedly the most untamed cat at large in the civilized world.

Such, in brief, was the terrifying creature that now elongated its neck, and, over the top step of the porch, bent a calculating scrutiny upon the wistful and slumberous Duke.
The scrutiny was searching but not prolonged.

Gipsy muttered contemptuously to himself, "Oh, sheol; I'm not afraid o' THAT!" And he approached the fishbone, his padded feet making no noise upon the boards.