entire face with the paint. The lad sputtered and shook his head, Notch danced around him, and the public roared, encouraging its entertainer with shouts of approval.

Just at that moment the auburn kitten appeared in the court-yard. It walked across the yard without haste, gracefully lifting its paws; it waved its arched tail, and was evidently unafraid of getting under the feet of the crowd which was milling around Notch and the bespattered boy, who was energetically rubbing his face with his palm and smearing the sticky mixture of oil and verdigris all over it.

“Fellows!” someone exclaimed. “Mishka is here.”

“Ah, the little rascal!”

“Hi, there, Ginger! Pussy!”

They seized the kitten and passed it from hand to hand; everybody fondled it.

“They don’t starve him! See how fat he is!”

“How fast he’s growing!”

“He scratches, the little devil!”

“Leave him alone. Let him jump!”

“I’ll hump my back for him. Jump, Mishka!”

Nobody paid any attention to Notch. He stood alone, rubbing the paint off his mustaches with his fingers, and glancing at the kitten which was jumping on the shoulders and backs of the prisoners. This amused everybody very much, and there was continual laughter.

“Mates! Let’s paint the cat!” Notch’s voice was heard. There was an imploring note in his suggestion.

The crowd’s response was noisy.

“But he’ll croak!” declared one.

“From paint? What an idea!”

“Go on, Notch, paint him!” a broad-shouldered chap with a flaming red beard cried enthusiastically. “Such a thing to think of! What a devil of a fellow!”

Notch already had the kitten in his hands and was walking over to the pail of paint.

There was a burst of laughter, and the prisoners, holding their sides, made way for Notch. I saw plainly how, grasping the kitten by its tail, he dipped it into the pail, and dancing, sang:

The laughter was louder than ever.

“Oh, cock-eyed Judas!” piped a thin voice.

“Oh, gracious!” another groaned.