Everybody is superstitious, said the night-watchman, as he gave utterance to a series of chirruping endearments to a black cat with one eye that had just been using a leg of his trousers as a serviette; if that cat 'ad stole some men's suppers they'd have acted foolish, and suffered for it all the rest of their lives. He scratched the cat behind the ear, and despite himself his face darkened. Slung it over the side, they would, he said, longingly, and chucked bits o' coke at it till it sank. As I said afore, everybody is superstitious, and those that ain't ought to be night-watchmen for a time--that 'ud cure 'em. I knew one man that killed a black cat, and arter that for the rest of his life he could never get three sheets in the wind without seeing its ghost. Spoilt his life for 'im, it did.
