"I--I shan't! He shan't be shot, even if he did steal 'em. And I know
he didn't. If you shoot him I'll--I'll tell Uncle Zoeth and--and Cap'n
Gould. And I won't let you have him anyhow. I won't," with savage
defiance. "If you shoot him you'll have to shoot me, too."

Con climbed over the wall. "You just wait, Pop," he said. "I'll take him
away from her."

But his father hesitated. There were certain reasons why he thought it
best not to be too arbitrary.

"Hold on, Con," he said. "Look here, sis, I'm sorry to have to kill your
cat, but I've got to. He steals chickens and them kind of cats has to be
shot. I see him myself yesterday afternoon. I told Isaiah Chase myself
that . . . why, you was there and heard me! You heard me tell how I was
lookin' out of the winder at quartet past four and see that cat--"

Mary-'Gusta interrupted. Her expression changed. She was still
dreadfully frightened but in her tone was a note of relief, of confident
triumph.

"You didn't see him," she cried. "It wasn't David; it wasn't this cat
you saw. I KNOW it wasn't."

"Well, I know it was. Now don't argue no more. You fetch that cat here
or I'll have Con take him away from you. Hurry up!"

"I know it wasn't David," began Mary-'Gusta. Then, as Con started in her
direction, she turned and ran, ran as hard as she could, bearing David