The cat in question was a disreputable old scalawag, with tattered ears and a scarred hide, souvenirs of fights innumerable, with no beauty and less morals, and named, with appropriate fitness, "Cherub." It was a quarter to twelve on a Sunday morning and Jed was preparing his dinner.

The piece de resistance of the dinner was, in this instance, to be a mackerel.

Jed had bought the mackerel of the fish peddler the previous afternoon and it had been reposing on a plate in the little ancient ice-chest which stood by the back door of the Winslow kitchen.

Barbara, just back from Sunday school and arrayed in her best, saw that back door open and decided to call.

Jed, as always, was glad to see her.
"You're getting dinner, aren't you, Mr.Winslow ?" she observed.
Jed looked at her over his spectacles.