Gladiator Read Free Page B

one day it committed matricide.
    Probably the playful blow of its front paw was intended in the best spirit. Certainly the old tabby, receiving it, was not prepared for such violence from its offspring. Danner gasped. The kitten had unseamed its mother in a swift and horrid manner. He put the cat out of its misery and tended the kitten with trepidation. It grew. It ate—beefsteaks and chops, bone and all.
    When it reached three weeks, it began to jump alarmingly. The laboratory was not large enough. The professor brought it its food with the expression of a man offering a wax sausage to a hungry panther.
    On a peaceful Friday evening Danner built a fire to stave off the rigours of a cold snap. He and Mrs. Danner sat beside the friendly blaze. Her sewing was in her lap, and in his was a book to which he paid scant attention. The kitten, behind its locked door, thumped and mewed.
    â€œIt’s hungry,” Mrs. Danner said. “If you must keep a cat, why don’t you feed it?”
    â€œ I do,” he answered. He refrained, for politic reasons, from mentioning what and how much he fed it. The kitten mewed again.
    â€œWell,” she repeated, “it sounds hungry.”
    Danner fidgeted. The laboratory was unheated and consequently chilly. From its gloomy interior the kitten peered beneath the door and saw the fire. It sensed warmth. The feline affinity for hearths drew it. One paw scratched tentatively on the door.
    â€œIt’s cold,” Mrs. Danner said. “Why don’t you bring it here? No, I don’t want it here. Take it a cover.”
    â€œIt—it has a cover.” Danner did not wish to go into that dark room.
    The kitten scratched again and then it became earnest. There was a splitting, rending sound. The bottom panel of the door was torn away and it emerged nonchalantly, crossing the room and curling up by the fire.
    For five minutes Mrs. Danner sat motionless. Her eyes at length moved from the kitten to her husband’s quivering face and then to the broken door. On his part, he made no move. The kitten was a scant six inches from his foot. Mrs. Danner rose. She went to the door and studied the orifice, prying at it with her fingers as if to measure the kitten’s strength by her own. Then she turned the key and peered into the gloom. That required either consummate nerve or great curiosity. After her inspection she sat down again.
    Ten minutes passed. Danner cleared his throat. Then she spoke. “So. You’ve done it?”
    â€œDone what?” he asked innocently.
    â€œYou’ve made all this rubbish you’ve been talking about strength—happen to that kitten.”
    â€œIt wasn’t rubbish.”
    â€œEvidently.”
    At that crisis Mr. Danner’s toe trembled and the kitten, believing it a new toy, curled its paws over the shoe. There was a sound of tearing leather, and the shoe came apart. Fortunately the foot inside it was not hurt severely. Danner did not dare to budge. He heard his wife’s startled inhalation.
    Mrs. Danner did not resume her sewing. She breathed heavily and slow fire crept into her cheeks. The enormity of the crime overcame her. And she perceived that the hateful laboratory had invaded her portion of the house. Moreover, her sturdy religion had been desecrated. Danner read her thoughts.
    â€œDon’t be angry,” he said. Beads of perspiration gathered on his brow.
    â€œAngry!” The kitten stirred at the sound of her voice. “Angry! And why not? Here you defied God and man—and made that creature of the devil. You’ve overrun my house. You’re a wicked, wicked man. And as for that cat, I won’t have it. I won’t stand for it.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    Her voice rose to a scream. “Do! Do! Plenty—and right here and now.” She ran to the kitchen and came back with a broom. She flung the front door wide. Her blazing eyes rested for a moment on the