True stories of old Houston and Houstonians: historical and personal sketches / by S. O. Young. Page: 53

HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 53
the pistol fired directly in his face by the other cat, he had
gotten his "dander up" and, securing his razor, had come out
looking for blood. That is the way I sized the situation up.
He advanced very cautiously, without saying a word. I longed
for another firecracker. I waited until he got nearly to the
fence and, having nothing else to throw, I dropped my cigarette
down just behind him. Again the effect was magical. He did
not wait for the explosion of the bomb he thought the other
cat had thrown at him from an ambuscade. He saw the sparks
from the scattered burning tobacco and moved off like a rocket.
There was one leap of ten feet to the top of the fence and he
was gone.
Now, the remarkable thing about the whole circumstance was
that neither of those cats opened its mouth or said a word
after the first shock. All their energy was concentrated in
their efforts to get away from there in the quickest time possible.
I don't know how they ever settled the matter or what
explanations they made to each other, but I do know that from
that time on nothing on earth could induce either of those cats
to come in my yard either during the day or night. The mystery
of the affair *as too much for them. Had I thrown a
firecracker down on only one of them he would have known it
was I who did itand acted accordingly. But the introduction of
doubt and suspicion into the problem, which made each one
doubt and mistrust the other and suspect him of having attempted
to assassinate him, made the case of mystery complete. They
dodged me and they evidently dodged each other, for we heard
no more of their outrages..
8JOLANDER A HERO.
IT has been my good fortune to have known several writers
of note, among them one or two poets. Strange to say
these latter have always been those whose friendship I
valued. I say strange, because it is really so, for aside from
their personality we have nothing in common. My taste is
so depraved that I think that the fellow who raves in verse
over a sunset, or a moon-lit night, is heading towards the nears
est asylum, and if he is not he should be pointed that way. I
confess that I enjoy the jingling verses, telling of breakfast
foods and fine, soaps, that one sees in the street cars, much
more than I do the poems that others rave over.
Now, among my poet friends is Sjolander, the sailor poet.
He and I have been intimate friends for about 80 years, and it
is a fact that I feel proud of. I have enjoyed his stories, skipped
his poetry and admired the man thoroughly and honetly. But