The trees surrendered what was left of their leaves to the harsh night wind that wheezed its icy breath along the city’s concrete sidewalk. The small black kitten quickened his pace, eager to reach his warm domicile at the end of the street, where there would surely be a meal waiting for him. His mouth watered at the thought of it; perhaps a fish, or a piece of turkey left over from Sunday dinner, placed in the middle of a plate with a garnish of catnip and a dish of milk or cream on the side. A few drops of saliva spattered the ground beneath his paws.
He saw a light ahead, coming from one of the windows of his house. He strolled through the gate and made his way up the porch steps and to the front door, where he sat and alternately meowed and scratched at the door with his claws. A loud exclamation of disgust was heard within the house, but the door swung open and he was admitted. In he walked, tail held straight and erect, whiskers spread, eyes shining, nose searching for the smell of food.
The kitten was puzzled. He smelled nothing edible; only a strange cardboard scent, and the unmistakable odor of cleaning fluid. He sensed that something was not right, and the fact that there was no furniture in sight amplified this feeling. He meowed and rubbed against the bearded man’s trouser legs.
“Oh, no,” the man scolded. “You’ll be getting nothing from me, cat. This is the last time you’ll mooch in my house!”
A slim woman with short brown hair and a nervous expression descended the staircase. “John,” she said, setting down the box she had been carrying, “couldn’t you give him a piece of liver or something?”
“No, Muriel,” the man said, kicking at the kitten. “I want this cat gone now! We can’t have him following us to the new house. We’d never get rid of him then!”
“New house!” the kitten exclaimed to himself. He suddenly hissed at the man, his fur rising on end. He darted several hopeful, sideways glances at the woman, who only stared at him with a piteous expression on her face.
“See? I told you that cat was no good the very minute he set foot on our porch! Look at the way he turned on me, just like that! And to think we’ve been giving that flea-bitten feline room and board. Why, he doesn’t deserve to have it as good as he does!” With that the man stooped and lifted the kitten, still hissing, by the scruff of his neck. he turned for the door.
“Where are you going, John?” the woman asked. She was wringing her hands and looking desperately at the tiny cat whose imploring eyes pierced her very heart.
“To the pound.” The man must have had a heart somewhere beneath his beardy exterior, for when he heard his wife’s gasp he turned to face her. “Muriel,” he began, “I promise you that as soon as we get moved, you can have any animal you want. I’ll even pay for one with a pedigree. Think about it. A real Persian pussy, instead of a scrawny skunk.” He flung open the door, grabbed his hat from the coat rack beside it, and started off down the street, cat in tow.
This was before cars were really necessary for transportation but were essential for bragging rights, in the time when the grocer’s, laundry, and hardware store were in walking distance from one’s house. However, the wind was so cruel that the man had barely started off before he decided it was worth the trouble to get the car out of the garage. He tucked the squirming kitten under one arm and tried to lift the garage door with the other. It refused to budge, having most likely frozen shut. He used both hands, but the kitten was squeezed between the man’s arm and torso and let out such a yowl that the man sighed, put the kitten down, and resumed trying to open the garage. The kitten decided to save him the trouble, for as soon as his feet touched the ground he was up and running down the street. The man stared after him for a moment, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and uttered a loud curse after the kitten before returning to the warmth of his house.
His ears pricked up at the sound of someone singing. The song, one which he was not familiar with, was sung in a deep baritone voice that cracked occasionally on the lower notes, as if it were really a tenor trying to sing bass. “My Wild Irish Rose! The sweetest flowr’ that grows...” the voice boomed, stopping abruptly after “grows.” The kitten noticed a pair of rather large paws outside the opening of the drain. His heart seemed to beat in his throat, pulsating to the rhythm of dog! dog! dog! dog!
“Who’s in there?” the voice said, returning to its normal pitch. A pair of glowing green eyes appeared at the end of the drain, and the cat inside hunched himself into the smallest possible ball at the far end of the drain, as far away from the eyes as he could go. He felt something close around his tail, and then he was outside the drain, laying on the ground and still curled up in a ball. He could feel the wind biting at him through his thin fur.
“Why, if it isn’t little Mistoffelees!” the voice exclaimed. The black kitten opened his eyes and slowly uncurled. He was in the presence of a large orange tabby, a familiar friend of his. He brightened when he realized that the tabby was a friend, and after he’d assumed he hadn’t any!
“Skimbleshanks!” exclaimed Mistoffelees, embracing his friend around the neck and giving him a playful and loving nip on the ear.
“Ay and begorrah, it is!” Skimbleshanks laughed. Then his manner became serious, and he looked the small black tom in the eyes. “Now supposin’ you tell old Skimble why you’re not at home enjoyin’ a meal.”
“They’re moving away,” Mistoffelees sighed. “I was really very lucky. The man was going to take me to the pound, but I ran away the second he put me down.”
“The pound!” Skimble exclaimed. A look of horror crossed his face, and as he shuddered he drew the little kitten nearer. “You’ll be comin’ with me. It’s too cold a night for you to be out on the street, and in the shape you’re in. Why, I do believe you’ve lost some weight!” As if in response, Mistoffelees sneezed loudly.
Skimbleshanks pulled the tired kitten, who was so much smaller and lighter than himself, onto his back and set off for the train station that was his home. He worried to himself along the way. “Where,” he thought, “is this kitten going to stay now that he has no family? Not with me; the guard at the door will let him stay the night, being the kind soul he is, but he canna live with me forever. He is obviously ill. He is skinny as a rail and sneezing, too. I must take him to Munkustrap first thing tomorrow morning. Perhaps he will know what to do.” Mistoffelees sighed in his sleep and dreamed of mice and catnip.
The kindly man lifted the furry form and carried him inside, where he wrapped him in a sheet from one of the berths and laid him in front of the electric heater. Skimbleshanks curled up beside Mistoffelees and slept at intervals, sometimes rising to make his rounds at the station, sometimes stopping to worry more.
They were both surprised and delighted when the form acknowledged their attention by rising, stretching, yawning, and tottering drunkenly towards them with a sneeze or two. Skimble rushed to the other cat’s side, much to the horror of Thomas, who was afraid they would fight, and began cleaning his matted fur. Mistoffelees seated himself and purred patiently while Skimble satisfied his paternal instincts. Mistoffelees sneezed three times in quick succession, shaking his head and scratching his nose with a paw.
“Oh my,” said Thomas, stroking the black kitten tentatively down the back. “We’ve got a sickie, eh? I knows jest what to do, I do.” He ran into a small room at one end of the station and emerged a minute later cradling a steaming white cup between two hands, insulated with several layers of napkins. He sat the cup down in front of Mistoffelees and said with an air of importance, “This is really supposed to be for guards and conductors only, when we’re workin’ late and need a bit of a perk, but I think we can make an exception in your case. Go on now, drink it while it’s still hot enough to do you some good.”
Mistoffelees sniffed the coffee warily. It stank, and looked foul; it was black and steamy, with bubbles rising in the center. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, but took a quick lap so as not to be rude. His tongue felt as though it were on fire. He could feel the steam rising to his nose, and found to his amazement that he could breathe easier. He lapped almost half of it up, and then Thomas offered the rest to Skimbleshanks, who politely declined.
“We should be off now,” Skimble said to Mistoffelees, who nodded in agreement and rose to show that he was ready. They gave a quick thank-you to Thomas and left the railway station.
“To find Munkustrap,” Skimble replied matter-of-factly. He pretended not to notice how Mistoffelees cringed at the name. Though kind and gentle, Munkustrap was not the most patient of cats, and he was easily annoyed. Too, his status of power was intimidating, even to Skimble, who had known him since Munkustrap was but a kitten.
Mistoffelees hid his feelings and walked proudly, with his head up and his whiskers spread. His tail betrayed him, for instead of waving erect like a flag it drooped and waved nervously. He thought of how he had felt last night in the storm drain, alone in the world, and of how wrong he had been. “After all,” he thought, “am I not in the presence of a friend? And are we not going to see others like Skimble?”
They reached the junkyard and entered by way of a loose board in the high fence that surrounded the place. The trash man always grumbled about how all the cats found their way in despite the high fence, but never bothered doing anything about it. He was just too lazy. A loud crash to the left of Skimbleshanks startled him and made him jump protectively in front of his companion.
The Rum Tum Tugger swaggered out from behind an overturned garbage can, wearing a grin and a banana peel. Mistoffelees would have laughed had he not been awed by the appearance of the junkyard legend. Instead, he simply hid beneath Skimbleshanks, who laughed for him.
“Tugger, the hat is a nice touch, but don’t you think it’s a little feminine?” Skimbleshanks hooted, pointing with a claw to the banana peel.
“A little what?” the Tugger asked, pulling the peel off his head and discarding it over his shoulder. He did not use big words often.
“Never mind.” Skimble shook his head. Mistoffelees peeped out from behind Skimble’s orange flank, staring with curiosity at the much larger cat before them.
“Hey, who’s the runt?” Tugger asked nonchalantly, leaping on top of the trash can and straining his neck to see Mistoffelees. The black kitten moved to where he could no longer be seen behind Skimbleshanks, and Rum Tum Tugger growled impatiently. “Ah, come on, kid! I’m not going to bite you or anything.”
Skimbleshanks picked up the timid beast by the scruff of his neck like a mother lifting her kitten, an action which mortified Mistoffelees. The last thing he wanted was for the great Rum Tum Tugger to think of him as no more than a cowardly kitten! It was bad enough being so much smaller than the other adult cats.
The Tugger jumped down from the trash can and strutted over to Mistoffelees, who continued to stare in wide-eyed wonder. Tugger circled round him, and Mistoffelees felt sure he was being scrutinized, examined, and that the great feline was trying to decide whether to keep him or throw him away. He puffed out his chest and held his tail proud and erect so as to better the other’s judgment.
“Kinda scrawny for a cat,” the Tugger remarked after a while, and Mistoffelees’ chest deflated. “Kinda shy, too.” A look of pity crossed his gallant face, and he reached out with a broad paw and thumped Mistoffelees on the back. “You’re okay, kid.”
“This is Mistoffelees,” Skimbleshanks said. “His family, er... well, you know, they... um...”
“They moved away and left me,” Mistoffelees remarked quietly, startling the other two.
“He speaks!” Tugger exclaimed with mock surprise. He became serious and put his arm around the ebony feline, noting how small he was in comparison. “Oh, well. Them’s the breaks. That’s life, you know. Hey, don’t worry, Misto! Me and Skimble’ll look after ya, won’t we, Skimble?”
“Actually, that’s why we came to the junkyard,” Skimble said, looking uncomfortable. “Y’see, there’s no place for him to stay at the station. I’d be turned out in the cold if it weren’t for the station master’s lovely daughters what likes me so well, and I know that he’d never allow a second cat. He hates ‘em. Allergies, you know.”
Tugger nodded thoughtfully and Skimbleshanks continued. “You haven’t by any chance seen Munkustrap? I thought perhaps he could find somewhere for the lit... for the fella to stay.” He had carefully avoided saying “little fellow”, for he knew how sensitive Misto was about his size.
“Why can’t he stay here, in the junkyard?” Tugger said. It was an honest question, but Skimble had to think how to answer it just right.
“Misto, um... go stand watch for Munkustrap. Perhaps he’ll be along shortly.” Puzzled by his friend’s request, Misto stumbled off to watch for the beloved leader.
“Tugger,” Skimbleshanks said, taking him aside, “Misto’s a bit small, even for a kitten. He’s very naive, and not very strong. He’s sick a lot, you know. I’m afraid he won’t be able to take care of himself out here. I was hoping perhaps an adoption of some sort...?”
“Jellylorum loves kittens,” Rum Tum Tugger suggested. “She’d be glad to take him in.”
“Well you see that’s just the thing,” Skimble said in one breath. “He doesn’t like being called a kitten. He’s very sensitive about it. He’s been forced to grow up too fast, and considers himself an adult, although he’s barely a year old.”
“Jelly would spoil him anyway. Make him into a powderpuff,” Tugger said. “He needs a father figure, someone like Munk or maybe Bustopher.”
Skimbleshanks shook his head vehemently. “No!” he exclaimed. “Munkustrap doesn’t have the patience to look after Mistoffelees, and Bustopher Jones? Come on, Tugger! What kind of a suggestion was that?”
Tugger shrugged and looked hopelessly at Misto, who sat atop a rocking chair. His tail swayed to and fro placidly, and his fur blew in the wind. “Well, I’d watch him, but I’m no good. I’d be afraid he’d turn out like me,” he said with a grin.
Skimbleshanks groaned and called for Mistoffelees. He was already returning to the two, a look of mixed horror and awe on his face. “Skimble!” he cried breathlessly. “He’s here!”
“Good. Come on.” Skimble walked towards the junkyard entrance. A large group of cats had gathered to greet Munkustrap; Skimble picked out Jellylorum, Tantomile, Coricopat, and Alonzo among the flood of familiar faces.
“Oh,” Mistoffelees moaned.
“Whatsamatter, kid?” Tugger said, concern edging his voice.
“All those cats,” he said. “Must I speak to Munkustrap in front of them all?”
“There’s nothing to it,” the other replied. “I’ll go with you.” Grateful for company, Misto walked hidden beneath the huge leopard-spotted beast.
Skimbleshanks had already pushed his way through the crowd and was speaking to Munkustrap. When the latter replied, a hush fell over the group. Everyone stopped talking and moving and sat perfectly still to listen to this important exchange between the two. “Where is he?” Munkustrap was saying.
“Right here,” Tugger replied, swaggering up to the silver tabby. A few squeals of delight came from the females in the crowd, but all soon fell quiet. “Or... he was here,” he said, looking behind himself with confusion. He stepped quickly away and Misto tried to follow, but was not quick enough and sat, exposed to the group.
A few gasps and coos of “How cute!” and “Who’s that?” were heard, much to the embarrassment of the specimen. He sat quite still, stretching himself as tall as he would go. His tail, curled tightly around his legs, twitched nervously. Again he was scrutinized, this time by the tabby, whose face betrayed no thought or emotion.
“He will come with me,” Munkustrap said quietly. “We will decide tonight, at the meeting.” Most of the cats disbanded, contenting themselves with the thought of the meeting, but a few approached Munkustrap.
“I haven’t had a kitten to look after since Tumblebrutus,” a thin calico remarked. “And he’s such a quiet little thing. I wouldn’t mind, I’ve nothing better to do.”
“Aw, come on, Munk! Let me have him. Jelly’ll spoil him rotten. He needs a real man to teach him what’s what!” a large black and white tom laughed. Jellylorum, the calico, gave him a swat on the ear.
“Of course, not all my pupils turn out good,” she said with a glare at the tom. “Like Alonzo here, the only mistake in my career.”
Munkustrap dismissed them and turned to Skimbleshanks. Misto was sitting miserably at the orange cat’s feet while Skimble talked to Jennyanydots. “We will leave now,” he said.
Misto tugged on Skimble’s tail. “You’re coming with me?” he said hopefully.
“No,” Skimbleshanks said with a faint smile. “Go with Munkustrap. And for heaven’s sake don’t annoy him!”
“If you can’t keep up I can carry you,” Munkustrap said, trying to be friendly to the little beast. Mistoffelees nodded timidly. His feet were tired and his eyelids were heavy, although it was only late afternoon. The tabby stooped and Misto clambered onto his back, trying to grip with his claws without hurting Munkustrap.
They continued. After a while Munkustrap himself began to feel sleepy, and he realized it was because of the rhythmic purring of his charge. In his sleep Misto was kneading his claws on Munkustrap’s head, an action which both annoyed and amused him. After a while, Munkustrap arrived at a large red gate. The gate was in front of a deserted, ramshackle cottage with weeds growing around it and ivy growing up its rotted wooden walls. The gate, which was never latched because there was no one to latch it, swung open in the breeze, and Munkustrap entered.
He dumped the sleeping kitten onto the ground and curled up himself by a large mildewed flower pot in the yard. Awakened by the impact, Mistoffelees stared in awe at his surroundings. He had expected the grand leader to live in a golden palace, with Pollicle servants who waited on you hand and foot and brought you cream and catnip. But this place was just as beautiful, and seemed more fitting for the strong, silent tabby.
The yard was surrounded by a high red picket fence. The grass in the yard grew green and high, and smelled sweet. There were patches of clover here and there. The yard was littered with pieces of junk dragged in to decorate the place and serve as furniture; a car fender, three flower pots, an old tire, a wadded up towel, two huge sofa cushions, a wooden bench, and a dilapidated cabinet with four doors that squeaked when they opened or shut.
Misto looked around for a place to sleep. He debated snoozing on one of the sofa cushions, but decided against it. They were probably for important company, not for scrawny young kittens, and he didn’t want to annoy Munkustrap. So, he curled up beneath the towel and fell asleep.
