‘But why, Bill?’ Henry asked, aghast.

‘Well, Mr. Kitson, you may think it silly of me, but it’s because of Ginger.’

‘Because of Ginger?’ Again Henry’s heart smote him. ‘You mean because of the messes he still makes?’

‘Oh no, Mr. Kitson. I don’t mind them at all. They’re all in the day’s work, if you know what I mean.’

‘Then what do you mind?’

‘I mind putting him out at night, sir. He claws and clutches and scratches me—you wouldn’t believe it. Not that I’d mind with a human being, I’ve had plenty of people to deal with much worse than he is—after all, he’s only got his claws, and I think he’s lost most of his teeth, but all the same, I don’t like it, sir, and that’s why I’m giving in my notice and asking for my cards.’

Henry was not too distraught to ignore the dignity of Bill’s resignation.

‘What will you do now, Bill?’ he asked.

‘Oh, well, sir, I shall find something. There are jobs waiting for a single man. I’m not a single man, really, I’m a widower, which is the nearest thing, and I have no ties. I haven’t put an advert in the paper yet, but I shall find a job you may be sure.’

Henry, too, was sure he would find another job; but where would he find another Bill? It was all too wretched, but he knew men of Bill’s type and they didn’t change their minds easily once they were made up.

‘Listen!’ he said loudly, as if Bill was deaf. ‘I don’t mind cleaning up the mess that Ginger leaves and I don’t mind putting him out at night. I know the way he claws and scratches, but I thought that with you who feeds him, he would behave better than he does with me. It seems that he hasn’t, and I am very sorry, Bill, but I shall be only too glad to take him on, eating, sleeping, and whatever else he wants to do—and relieve you of the responsibility.’ (Just as Ginger relieves himself, he thought but did not say.)

‘I couldn’t ask you to do that, sir. You have been very good to me, but I shall find a job where there aren’t any animals to work for.’

At this rather ungracious remark Henry Kitson groaned again.

‘I know I ought not to have left the dirty work to you, Bill,’ he said, with the belated contrition that most people feel at one time or another. ‘I know I shouldn’t have, and if you agree to stay I’ll be responsible for everything to do with Ginger, by day or by night.’

‘Oh no, sir, I couldn’t let you do that, a gentleman in your position. And in any case, it isn’t that that I mind.’

Henry groaned again. He was utterly at a loss.

‘Then what do you mind, Bill?’

‘I mind putting him out at night, Mr. Kitson. He creates so, you wouldn’t believe it, but yes, you would, you’ve had it so often yourself. It isn’t his scratching and mauling I mind, it’s when he purrs and tries to pretend I’m doing him a kindness. I’m not that tender-hearted, but I know what it’s like to spend a night in the open,’ the ex-policeman added.

Henry’s eyes grew moist.

‘Well, I’ll put him out tonight.’

‘Oh no, Mr. Kitson, I’ll see to him.’

But Henry displayed unexpected firmness.

‘No, no, let’s leave him indoors. And if anything happens, I’ll take care of it.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Bill, smartly. ‘Good night, sir,’ he added, on a note of finality that echoed through the room when he was gone.

Ginger was lying in front of the fire, on one of his rare visits to Henry’s study since he had yielded to the superior attractions of the sawdust box. He purred, as he always did when Henry so much as looked at him. Every now and then he stretched out his paw, as though trying to make himself more comfortable than he already was. Every now and then he half opened his eyes and looked at Henry with what Henry called his ‘beatific’ expression, suggesting his mysterious but not unkindly insight into the past, the present, and the future.

‘I won’t disturb him,’ Henry thought, turning out the light, ‘let him stay here if he wants to; and if he prefers the cellar-door he knows the way.’

At eight o’clock the next morning Bill appeared as usual, bringing Henry’s early-morning tea. He drew the curtains.

‘There it is!’ he said.

Henry had heard this aubade before, but he was always foxed by it.

‘Where is what?’ he asked.

‘The day,’ said Bill.

Henry, nursing again his discomfiture at not having foreseen this obvious answer, sat up and looked out of the window. It was a dreary November day, but Bill didn’t seem uncheerful.

‘I’m afraid I’ve some bad news for you,’ he said.

Henry tried to collect his waking thoughts. A pall enveloped them. How could Bill be so unkind?

‘I suppose you mean that you are leaving?’ he said, stretching out his hand for the teapot.

‘Oh no, Mr. Kitson, it’s much worse than that.’

‘What can be worse?’ thought Henry miserably, and uttered his thought out loud. ‘What can be worse, Bill?’

‘It’s much worse,’ said Bill.

Eight o’clock in the morning is not the best time to receive bad news, and especially if one doesn’t know what it is. Henry relinquished the teapot and sank back on the pillow.

‘Tell me,’ he said.

‘Well, Mr. Kitson,’ said Bill, with his back to the light, while he was arranging Henry’s clothes on a chair, ‘to tell you the truth—’

‘Oh, do tell me, Bill.’

‘To tell you the truth,’ Bill repeated, as if one sort of truth was more valuable than another, ‘Ginger is dead.’

‘Good God,’ said Henry, who had envisaged some cosmic nuclear disturbance especially aimed at him. ‘Good God!’ he repeated, with intense relief. And then he remembered Ginger last night, sitting on the hearth-rug and purring loudly whenever Henry vouchsafed a look at him. ‘Poor Ginger!’ he said.

‘Yes, sir, and I feel very sorry about him too. Ginger was a good old cat. Would you like to see him, Mr. Kitson?’

‘What, now?’

‘Now, or any time. He’s there, he isn’t far away.’

Henry got out of bed. He put on his dressing-gown and followed Bill downstairs.

‘The usual place,’ said Bill.

It was dark down there, so they turned on the light. Ginger was lying in his sawdust box, looking quite comfortable and life-like, except that his head seemed to be twisted over.

Henry stooped down and stroked his cold fur and half listened for the purr that didn’t come; then he led the way upstairs.

‘He seemed so well last night,’ he said to Bill.

‘Oh yes, sir, but animals are like that, just like human beings, if you know what I mean. Here today and gone tomorrow.’

Henry felt the bitter sensation of loss that we are all bound to feel at one time or another.

‘But he seemed so well last night,’ he repeated.

‘Yes’, replied Bill, ‘but he was very old. We all have to go sometime.’

An unworthy suspicion stirred in Henry’s mind, but he stifled it.

‘And now I’ve got to lose you, too, Bill,’ he said.

‘Oh no, sir,’ said Bill, promptly, ‘I’ve thought it over, and I don’t want to go, that is, unless you want me to.’

A wave of relief—there was no other word for it—swept over Henry.

‘Please stay,’ he said, ‘please stay, Bill.’

‘Yes, I will, Mr. Kitson,’ Bill answered and there was a surge and an uplift in his voice. ‘We’ve got cutlets for lunch—will that be all right?’

His pronunciation was rather odd, and he made it sound like ‘cadets’.

‘Would you like a drink now, Bill?’ Henry asked. ‘Or is it too early?’

‘I won’t say no,’ said Bill, and the light began to glow behind his coal-black eyes.