Jerry Todd and the rose-colored cat

Did you ever hear of a feline rest farm? We never did till the day we came across Professor Ellsworth Stoner at the Rock Island depot. Till that time we had always thought a cat was a cat, but the professor, after telling us that he was an authority on cats, having studied them all his life along what he termed scientific lines, told us that a cat was a “feline.”

I guess Peg Shaw and I would have particularly noticed the professor even if Scoop Ellery hadn’t pointed him out to us. He was a noticeable man. I don’t mean he was distinguished-looking, like some of the professors and doctors in our college on the hill. What made him noticeable was his odd appearance and queer actions.

I am a great hand to study people’s faces. When I see a man with a kindly face I am naturally attracted to him. Where a man has a mean face I make it a point to keep out of his way. The tall, thin stranger, I noticed, had an unusually kindly face. I knew right off that here was a man who wouldn’t harm a flea. But even in my respect for him I had to smile as I regarded him closely, taking in the big-rimmed spectacles that rested loosely on his big nose, and the old-fashioned collar and necktie. He had on a black suit and a black soft hat. From his general appearance I took him to be a minister. He was mixed up in the crowd of Chicago people who were leaving the train, headed for the Walkers Lake Sanitarium.

Spider Phelps, who drives a summer bus between Tutter and the sanitarium, had his outfit backed up against the depot platform. His homely face screwed all out of shape, he was yelling into the crowd:

“Right over here, ladies and gents. Here’s the bus for the sanitarium. Goin’ right out.”

Walkers Lake is about three miles south of Tutter and the sanitarium built on its shore is a pretty swell joint. It is a cluster of buildings, the largest of which contains fully two hundred rooms. I guess it costs a lot of money to stay there and that is why the guests are mostly rich people from Chicago and Peoria—Tutter being situated about half way between these two cities. The visitors come and stay for two or three weeks at a time, not so much because they are sick but because they are tired and want to rest up in a fashionable way. It’s something of a fad, I guess, for rich people to patronize places like the Walkers Lake Sanitarium.

“Gee, fellows, lamp the deacon,” Scoop cried, pointing to where the man with the funny spectacles had paused on the platform, glancing about him uncertainly. He had no suit-case or traveling bag like the other passengers—just a covered basket, which he carried on his right arm. Scoop laughed and jabbed Peg in the ribs with his elbow. “Why don’t you go over,” he suggested, “and carry the basket? You’ll get a tip—maybe.”

Peg had a reflective look on his face.

“Queer,” said he out of his thoughts.

“What’s queer?” Scoop wanted to know.

“That he should be going to the sanitarium. It’s a pretty lively place for a minister.”

Scoop laughed.

“Maybe he’ll get the shock of his life when he sees the way they dance and carry on. I guess they play cards, too.”

I didn’t say anything. But I had the feeling that the stranger wasn’t heading for the sanitarium as Peg and Scoop imagined. I don’t know what gave me that thought unless it was the uncertainty and bewilderment pictured in the man’s thin face.

Red Meyers, who is the fourth member of our gang, was helping a big fat lady with black earrings carry a couple of fuzzy-haired dogs and a big traveling bag from the train to the bus. She looked as though she might be worth a lot of money. Anyway Red had picked her out as likely to give him a good tip.

While we were watching, the baggage man came down the platform with a truck piled high with trunks and boxes. He accidentally ran into the man with the big spectacles, causing the latter to drop his basket. The basket rolled along the platform and bumped against Red, who was having an awful time trying to carry the two dogs and the big traveling bag at the same time. When the basket struck his legs the cover flopped back and out popped a frightened coal-black cat.

Gee-miny crickets! It was as good as a circus to see the way those two dogs got into action when they spied the cat. Red tried to hang onto them but they clawed and scratched till he had to drop them. When they landed on the platform they gave a wild yelp and started pell-mell for the cat. Around and around the platform they went, making a fearful racket and commotion. Women screamed and ran for the bus. Peg and I and Scoop pretty nearly yipped our heads off we were so tickled.

The fat lady with the black earrings got excited when she saw her dogs hotfooting it after the black cat. She danced around and scolded Red who dropped the traveling bag and tried to grab the dogs. He yelled for us to help him. By this time everybody on the platform was yelling except the stranger with the big spectacles.

“Dear me! Dear me!” the tall man said slowly, looking on in a bewildered way. Picking up his hat, which had been jostled from his head, he dusted it carefully with his handkerchief and then reached for the basket. When he noticed that the basket was empty he gave a startled cry and stared helplessly into the faces about him.

Red was skidding around the platform grabbing at the dogs. They were small dogs, but for their size they made a lot of noise. He managed to get hold of one by the tail. It turned and snapped at his fingers, which made him mad. It doesn’t take much to make Red mad. His temper is as fiery as his hair. When the fat lady began scolding him for pulling her dog’s tail he told her she could catch her own dogs for all he cared.

Then some one yelled to forget about the dogs and rescue the cat. Scoop saw it heading his way and grabbed it just in time to save its tail from being snapped off by one of the dogs. After that the fat lady had no difficulty rounding up her pets. She cuddled them in her arms and I thought for a moment she was going to kiss them. The last we saw of her she was indignantly climbing into the bus, a dog under each fat arm, Spider Phelps following with the traveling bag.

Scoop ran up to the man with the big spectacles.

“Here’s your cat, mister,” he said, offering the pet to its owner. The stranger looked the cat over with a great deal of concern. A sigh of relief escaped from his lips when he found the cat’s tail and everything else in proper shape.

“Dear me!” he murmured, stroking the cat with the tips of his long thin fingers. “How unfortunate that my little companion should be subjected to such rude and savage treatment.” He beamed at Scoop over the top of his spectacles. “I am deeply grateful to you, my boy, for interposing and saving my little pet from those very vicious and ill-bred canines.”

Scoop turned to me and grinned. Calling dogs canines was something new to us. No one in Tutter had ever called dogs by such a fancy name. I figured that the man must be a college professor instead of a minister.

Then, when the crowd had melted away and we were seated on the platform, the stranger told us that he was a professor—though he had no connection with the Tutter College. His name was Professor Ellsworth Stoner and he told us in a modest way that he knew more about cats than any other man in the whole world. He further explained that he had come to Tutter to start a feline rest farm.

Well, I wanted to laugh. A feline rest farm! It struck me as being a crazy idea. I thought at first he was joking. The others thought so, too. I could tell from their actions. But he wasn’t joking. No, sir-e! It was his idea to fix up a place where the cats could be taken care of, then advertise it as an exclusive feline rest farm. He told us he would soon be swamped with business.

In telling us about his scheme he used a lot of big words. He said among other things that the cat was one of the most glorious creatures in the world—that years and years and years ago the Egyptians used to embalm their cats just like human beings. That was the “golden age of her Feline Majesty,” is the way he put it. He told us about the big cat cemeteries along the River Nile. It was interesting. I could see he knew a great deal about cats.

“The many years of exhaustive study that I have given to the subject will excellently fit me for the work that I am about to take up,” he went on. “My first step will be to establish a suitable feline domicile and then——”

“Establish a which?” Scoop interrupted, letting his forehead go puckered.

“A feline domicile.”

“What’s a feline domicile?” inquired Scoop.

“I am referring, of course, to the home I shall establish for my feline guests,” explained the professor.

Scoop grunted.

“If you go talking that dictionary stuff around town you’ll establish something, all right, but it won’t be a home for sick cats.”

The professor looked bewildered.

“I—er—fail to comprehend,” he murmured.

“You’ll establish a reputation for being a nut,” Scoop said bluntly.

“A nut?”

“Yes, a nut.”

“How extraordinary!”

Scoop saw that it was no use talking slang to the professor.

“Never mind,” he grinned. “Go ahead with your yarn. You left off where you were establishing a dormitory, or something.”

“A feline domicile,” the professor corrected. “When this has been provided I shall advertise in the Chicago newspapers. I am sure the wealthy people who have occasion to depart from their homes during the sultry summer months will be extremely glad to learn that their pet felines can be accommodated at my rest farm and cared for along strictly scientific lines.”

I could see doubt in Scoop’s face.

“You say the rich people will pay you real money for taking care of their cats?” he questioned, regarding the other with narrowed eyes.

The professor frowned in mild disapproval.

“I much prefer the term ‘feline’ to ‘cat,’” he said. “To my cultured ear the term ‘cat’ sounds very vulgar. Yes,” he went on, “I shall make a charge of one dollar per feline per week. At first I shall arrange to accommodate one hundred felines—a matter of one hundred dollars per week.” He paused and cleaned his spectacles with a handkerchief. When they were polished to his satisfaction he returned them to his nose and added: “You seem to be nice, bright boys. I am wondering if I can engage you to assist me in the undertaking.”

Scoop backed off. I knew why. Right away I got suspicious, too. One time a shyster came to town and told us what smart boys we were and skinned us out of five dollars for memberships in his fake detective agency. I told about that in my book about the whispering mummy. Now another stranger was giving us the same line of soft-soap. It wouldn’t do him any good. We were wise. What little money we had would stay right in our pockets.

“There will be a suitable remuneration,” the man continued. “Suppose we say five dollars each per week.”

I saw now that we had been overly suspicious.

“You mean you want us to work for you; and that you will pay each of us five dollars a week?” Scoop questioned shortly.

The professor nodded.

“I rather feel that five dollars a week will be a just stipend,” he said gravely.

Peg threw up his arms and pretended he was going to faint.

“Help!” he cried. “Some one fan me with a dictionary.”

Scoop turned and scowled.

“Cut it out,” he ordered. Then he said to the professor: “What do we do to earn the five dollars?”

“I shall train you in the scientific care of my feline guests. There will be regular feeding hours; and, of course, systematic recreation. I cannot possibly manage the business and attend to all the details of operation. If you feel you would like to assist me in the work——”

“You can consider us hired,” Scoop cut in. “This is vacation time and we’ll work for you as long as there’s a regular pay-day. What do we do first?”

The professor seemed pleased at Scoop’s decision. But he wasn’t half as tickled as I was. Here was an easy way to earn five dollars a week was my contented thought. Lots easier than hoeing corn in the river bottoms, which I did one summer for fifty cents a day and almost chopped my big toe off. I knew Dad and Mother would be pleased when they heard about my swell new job. Dad says a boy should always keep his eyes and ears open and learn useful things. I figured that in associating with the professor I would learn a lot of useful things about cats. When you come to think about it there aren’t very many people who know very much about cats. A cat is born and lives and dies and that is the end of it. We know a lot about horses and cows. Magazines print stories about dogs, showing that dogs are well understood. But I never saw a story about a cat. I like cats, too. It would be nice to learn all about them. Every day I would learn something new. I was anxious to get started on my new job.

In answer to Scoop’s question the professor explained that the first thing to do was to find a suitable location for establishing the rest farm.

“We shall require a somewhat sizable building,” he outlined. “It should be rather apart from the community so that we shall not be disturbed.”

Scoop’s thoughts carried him away. Then he came back to earth and gripped my arm.

“Say, Jerry, how about the old cement mill back of your pa’s brickyard?”

“Just the place,” I said, sharing his excitement.

The old mill wasn’t good for anything. Years ago the machinery was junked for old iron. There are holes in the wooden walls and roof, but I figured this wouldn’t interfere very much. In talking it over Peg suggested that we see Dad before going any further with our plans, so we took the professor along with us to find out would it be all right to turn the old mill into a cat farm.

It took us ten minutes to reach the brickyard, which is near the canal on the west side of town. Dad was in his office. He looked kind of surprised when we entered with the professor. I guess he thought, like we did at first, that our new friend was a minister.

“Howdy, gang,” he greeted, grinning down at us as he shook hands. Dad’s always friendly and full of fun. “Some one getting married to-day?—or are we taking up a missionary collection for the Hottentots?” he added.

“This is Professor Ellsworth Stoner,” I introduced. “He knows all about cats and——”

“You mean catalogs?” interrupted Dad, looking from me to the professor.

“No; just plain cats,” I said.

The professor came forward. He looked comical with the big-rimmed spectacles jiggling on the end of his big nose and the basket on his arm. He had a funny way, too, of peering solemnly over the top of his spectacles.

A grin crept into Dad’s face.

“Might I—er—suggest,” the professor interrupted in a mild voice, “that hereafter in our reference to the felis domestica we use the term ‘feline’ instead of ‘cat.’ To me the term ‘cat’ seems common and does not do justice to the gorgeous creature that in the days of Egypt’s splendor held the awe and admiration of even the mighty Pharaohs.”

Dad’s stenographer went, “Tee, hee, hee!” and stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth. But Dad didn’t giggle. He has better manners than Miss Tubbs. Maybe he wanted to laugh, but if he did he choked it down, like I do in church when something funny happens. Dad has a lot of consideration for other people’s feelings.

“I’m mighty glad to meet you, professor,” he said, again pumping the thin arm up and down. This jiggled the basket and started the black cat to yowling. “All my life,” added Dad, running off into his nonsense, “I’ve been wanting to meet some one who was an authority on cats. Yes, sir, I’m tickled pink to make your acquaintance.”

The professor beamed.

“And I, sir, am de-lighted to meet you. This is an honor I long shall remember! If, as you say, you are scientifically interested in felines, we shall, in the days to come, enjoy many happy moments discussing their anatomy, their physiology and magnificent personality.”

“Absolutely,” said Dad. “You took the words right out of my mouth. Anatomy is what I’m most interested in. We’ll discuss that first if you have no objection. Now I wonder——” and he ran his fingers through his hair, letting his forehead go puckered.

There was a brief reflective silence.

“I am wondering,” continued Dad, “if it will be best for us to start in on the anatomy at the ears and work down, or start in at the tail and work up.”

I didn’t know how far he would carry his joke, so I decided to butt in. Very quickly I told about the professor’s cat farm scheme and asked would it be all right for us to use the old mill. I explained that I was to work for the professor and earn five dollars a week.

Dad had a puzzled look when I finished.

“Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “As I understand it you are going to start a—er—feline rest farm in the old mill, advertise in the Chicago newspapers for ca—I mean felines, and have a bunch shipped in here with the idea of collecting a dollar a week per feline from the owners. Am I right?”

The professor beamed at Dad and nodded.

“Sir,” he said, “you have given in brief a very comprehensive outline of my contemplated project.”

“And you are going to start with one hundred ca—I mean felines?”

“Exactly, sir; exactly.”

Dad’s eyes twinkled like he was all bubbly inside.

“What’s the use of being pikers?” said he. “Let’s make it two hundred cats. Shucks! Let’s make it a thousand. That will be a thousand dollars every week. This is a wonderful scheme,” he added, letting on like he was terribly excited over the proposition. “You’re to be congratulated, professor. Any common dub can see money in bricks but it takes a genius to see money in cats. Yes, sir, I’m with you till Niagara falls. Absolutely. Use the old mill by all means. Do anything with it that you want to.”

We thanked Dad and passed on through the brickyard. The old mill is located on the side of a hill. There is a door in front that opens into the lower floor, but we decided to use the second floor, which was reached by climbing the hill and entering a wide door at the back. The second floor was in every way the cleanest and there was better light here.

The professor teetered about the room on his long, willowy legs, as tickled as a small kid with an all-day sucker.

“How does it strike you?” said Scoop, acting like he wanted to be handed a little praise for being smart and suggesting the old mill as a good place to establish the cat farm.

“Excellent,” murmured the professor. “I can, in fact, imagine no place better adapted to our immediate needs. Roomy, airy, dry. Um—— We shall require a goodly supply of boxes of suitable proportions in which to house our feline guests. Doubtless we can acquire them at the mercantile shops in the village.”

“You won’t get ’em for nothing,” Scoop said quickly. “I know, because my father runs a grocery store.”

“I venture to say the charge will not be exorbitant,” returned the professor. “I have some money with me. Suppose we see how many suitable boxes we can purchase for five dollars,” and producing a pocketbook he handed Scoop a crisp greenback.

We had a lot of fun that day helping the professor arrange things in the old mill. And as we worked with him we absorbed much of his confidence in the scheme. Like Peg said, in the big cities they have hospitals for dogs and other pets. He read about it in a magazine. And he told us about a doll hospital in New York City. All they do in this hospital is put new arms and legs on old dolls. If people could make a success of a doll hospital I saw no reason why we couldn’t make a success of the feline rest farm. Take the rich people who patronize the Walkers Lake Sanitarium. They cheerfully pay two prices for everything. What would a dollar a week mean to them in considering the welfare of their pet cats? Not a drop in the bucket, hardly. Yes, sir, we were every bit as excited over the proposition as the professor and fully as confident that it was going to be a money-making scheme.

There is a little room to one side on the second floor of the old mill and here we brought in a cot that Red found in his pa’s barn. The professor seemed to have plenty of money. He bought a small gasoline stove for cooking purposes and a lot of truck to eat. Mostly canned things like beans and cooked meat. When we were ready to go home to supper Scoop said it didn’t seem right to leave the old gentleman all alone in the mill, so we got two more cots and prepared to stay with him nights, two of us at a time.

At the supper table that evening Dad was full of nonsense. He talked persistently of “felines,” reminding us of the swell time he was going to have visiting with the professor. After a bit Mother told him to quit acting the dunce. She pinched my knee under the table and said the feline rest farm was a dandy scheme and she hoped everything would turn out all right. That’s Mother for you! She knows how to stand by a fellow and believe in him.

“Of course,” she added, looking into my face, “you will want to be careful and not let the cats——”

“Felines,” Dad corrected with a grin. “My dear lady, must I again remind you that the term ‘cat’ sounds very common and fails to do justice to the gorgeous creature that put Egypt on the map?”

Mother reached for the salt.

“I said cats and I mean cats,” she sputtered, jiggling the salt shaker.

Dad sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

“All right,” he said, “have it your own way.”

“As I was going to say, Jerry,” she went on, “I hope you will be careful and not let the cats bite you and give you hydrophobia.”

I slowed up on my potatoes and looked into her face.

“You are thinking of dogs,” I said. “Cats don’t give people hydrophobia.”

“The cats may give you something worse than hydrophobia,” she persisted. “I want you to promise me you will be careful.”

I told her there was nothing to worry about. I said it was going to be fun.