The Man With Two Left Feet

rule, and this was one of them. When a man risks his liberty to come and root at a ball–game, you've got to hand it to him. He isn't a crook. He's a fan. And we exiled fans have got to stick together.'
    Waterall was quivering with fury, disappointment, and the peculiar unpleasantness of being treated by an elderly gentleman like a sack of coals. He stammered with rage.
    'You damned old fool, do you realize what you've done? The police will be here in another minute.'
    'Let them come.'
    'But what am I to say to them? What explanation can I give? What story can I tell them? Can't you see what a hole you've put me in?'
    Something seemed to click inside Mr Birdsey's soul. It was the berserk mood vanishing and reason leaping back on to her throne. He was able now to think calmly, and what he thought about filled him with a sudden gloom.
    'Young man,' he said, 'don't worry yourself. You've got a cinch. You've only got to hand a story to the police. Any old tale will do for them. I'm the man with the really difficult job—I've got to square myself with my wife!'

BLACK FOR LUCK
    He was black, but comely. Obviously in reduced circumstances, he had nevertheless contrived to retain a certain smartness, a certain air—what the French call the
tournure
. Nor had poverty killed in him the aristocrat's instinct of personal cleanliness; for even as Elizabeth caught sight of him he began to wash himself.
    At the sound of her step he looked up. He did not move, but there was suspicion in his attitude. The muscles of his back contracted, his eyes glowed like yellow lamps against black velvet, his tail switched a little, warningly.
    Elizabeth looked at him. He looked at Elizabeth. There was a pause, while he summed her up. Then he stalked towards her, and, suddenly lowering his head, drove it vigorously against her dress. He permitted her to pick him up and carry him into the hall–way, where Francis, the janitor, stood.
    'Francis,' said Elizabeth, 'does this cat belong to anyone here?'
    'No, miss. That cat's a stray, that cat is. I been trying to locate that cat's owner for days.'
    Francis spent his time trying to locate things. It was the one recreation of his eventless life. Sometimes it was a noise, sometimes a lost letter, sometimes a piece of ice which had gone astray in the dumb–waiter—whatever it was, Francis tried to locate it.
    'Has he been round here long, then?'
    'I seen him snooping about a considerable time.'
    'I shall keep him.'
    'Black cats bring luck,' said Francis sententiously.
    'I certainly shan't object to that,' said Elizabeth. She was feeling that morning that a little luck would be a pleasing novelty. Things had not been going very well with her of late. It was not so much that the usual proportion of her manuscripts had come back with editorial compliments from the magazine to which they had been sent—she accepted that as part of the game; what she did consider scurvy treatment at the hands of fate was the fact that her own pet magazine, the one to which she had been accustomed to fly for refuge, almost sure of a welcome—when coldly treated by all the others—had suddenly expired with a low gurgle for want of public support. It was like losing a kind and open–handed relative, and it made the addition of a black cat to the household almost a necessity.
    In her flat, the door closed, she watched her new ally with some anxiety. He had behaved admirably on the journey upstairs, but she would not have been surprised, though it would have pained her, if he had now proceeded to try to escape through the ceiling. Cats were so emotional. However, he remained calm, and, after padding silently about the room for awhile, raised his head and uttered a crooning cry.
    'That's right,' said Elizabeth, cordially. 'If you don't see what you want, ask for it. The place is yours.'
    She went to the ice–box, and produced milk and sardines. There was nothing finicky or affected about her guest. He was a good trencherman, and he did not care who knew it. He concentrated himself on the restoration of his tissues with the purposeful air of one whose last meal is a dim memory. Elizabeth, brooding over him like a Providence, wrinkled her forehead in thought.
    'Joseph,' she said at last, brightening; 'that's your name. Now settle down, and start being a mascot.'
    Joseph settled down amazingly. By the end of the second day he was conveying the impression that he was the real owner of the apartment, and that it was due to