Part 15

“Guess my mamma would give it to you.”

“Run home and tell mamma you'd been whopped, would you, then?”

Little Arnold, beautiful baby boy, straightened himself with a quick remembrance that he was born a man. “You know I wouldn't tell, Johnny Trumbull.”

“Guess you wouldn't. Well, here it is--” Johnny spoke in emphatic whispers, Arnold's curly head close to his mouth: “There are a good many things in this town have got to be set right,” said Johnny.

Little Arnold stared at him. Then fire shone in his lovely blue eyes under the golden shadow of his curls, a fire which had shone in the eyes of some ancestors of his, for there was good fighting blood in the Carruth family, as well as in the Trumbull, although this small descendant did go about curled and kissed and barelegged.

“How'll we begin?” said Arnold, in a strenuous whisper.

“We've got to begin right away with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens.”

“With Jim Simmons's cats and kittens?” repeated Arnold.

“That was what I said, exactly. We've got to begin right there. It is an awful little beginning, but I can't think of anything else. If you can, I'm willing to listen.”

“I guess I can't,” admitted Arnold, helplessly.

“Of course we can't go around taking away money from rich people and giving it to poor folks. One reason is, most of the poor folks in this town are lazy, and don't get money because they don't want to work for it. And when they are not lazy, they drink. If we gave rich people's money to poor folks like that, we shouldn't do a mite of good. The rich folks would be poor, and the poor folks wouldn't stay rich; they would be lazier, and get more drink. I don't see any sense in doing things like that in this town. There are a few poor folks I have been thinking we might take some money for and do good, but not many.”

“Who?” inquired Arnold Carruth, in awed tones.

“Well, there is poor old Mrs. Sam Little. She's awful poor. Folks help her, I know, but she can't be real pleased being helped. She'd rather have the money herself. I have been wondering if we couldn't get some of your father's money away and give it to her, for one.”

“Get away papa's money!”

“You don't mean to tell me you are as stingy as that, Arnold Carruth?”

“I guess papa wouldn't like it.”

“Of course he wouldn't. But that is not the point. It is not what your father would like; it is what that poor old lady would like.”

It was too much for Arnold. He gaped at Johnny.

“If you are going to be mean and stingy, we may as well stop before we begin,” said Johnny.

Then Arnold Carruth recovered himself. “Old Mr. Webster Payne is awful poor,” said he. “We might take some of your father's money and give it to him.”

Johnny snorted, fairly snorted. “If,” said he, “you think my father keeps his money where we can get it, you are mistaken, Arnold Carruth. My father's money is all in papers that are not worth much now and that he has to keep in the bank till they are.”

Arnold smiled hopefully. “Guess that's the way my papa keeps HIS money.”

“It's the way most rich people are mean enough to,” said Johnny, severely. “I don't care if it's your father or mine, it's mean. And that's why we've got to begin with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens.”

“Are you going to give old Mrs. Sam Little cats?” inquired Arnold.

Johnny sniffed. “Don't be silly,” said he. “Though I do think a nice cat with a few kittens might cheer her up a little, and we could steal enough milk, by getting up early and tagging after the milkman, to feed them. But I wasn't thinking of giving her or old Mr. Payne cats and kittens. I wasn't thinking of folks; I was thinking of all those poor cats and kittens that Mr. Jim Simmons has and doesn't half feed, and that have to go hunting around folks' back doors in the rain, when cats hate water, too, and pick things up that must be bad for their stomachs, when they ought to have their milk regularly in nice, clean saucers. No, Arnold Carruth, what we have got to do is to steal Mr. Jim Simmons's cats and get them in nice homes where they can earn their living catching mice and be well cared for.”

“Steal cats?” said Arnold.

“Yes, steal cats, in order to do right,” said Johnny Trumbull, and his expression was heroic, even exalted.

It was then that a sweet treble, faltering yet exultant, rang in their ears.