t'ink youse is?' An' I says, 'I'm de guy what's goin' to swat youse
one on de coco if youse don't quit fussin' de poor dumb animal.' So
wit dat he makes a break at swattin' me one, but I swats him one,
an' I swats de odder feller one, an' den I swats dem bote some
more, an' I gets de kitty, an' I brings her in here, cos I t'inks
maybe youse'll look after her."

And having finished this Homeric narrative, Master Maloney fixed an
expressionless eye on the ceiling, and was silent.

Billy Windsor, like most men of the plains, combined the toughest
of muscle with the softest of hearts. He was always ready at any
moment to become the champion of the oppressed on the slightest
provocation. His alliance with Pugsy Maloney had begun on the
occasion when he had rescued that youth from the clutches of a
large negro, who, probably from the soundest of motives, was
endeavouring to slay him. Billy had not inquired into the rights
and wrongs of the matter: he had merely sailed in and rescued the
office-boy. And Pugsy, though he had made no verbal comment on the
affair, had shown in many ways that he was not ungrateful.

"Bully for you, Pugsy!" he cried. "You're a little sport. Here"
--he produced a dollar-bill--"go out and get some milk for the
poor brute. She's probably starving. Keep the change."

"Sure thing," assented Master Maloney. He strolled slowly out,
while Billy Windsor, mounting a chair, proceeded to chirrup and
snap his fingers in the effort to establish the foundations of an
_entente cordiale_ with the rescued cat.