Part 18

“I seen them run,” persisted Jane, who was tired and wished to be gone.

“Well, close that window, anyway, for I know I hear them, even if they have gone,” said Mrs. Meeks. The three heard with relief the window slammed down.

The light flashed out, and simultaneously Lily Jennings and Johnny Trumbull turned indignantly upon Arnold Carruth.

“There, you have gone and let all those poor cats go,” said Johnny.

“And spoilt everything,” said Lily.

Arnold rubbed his shoulder. “You would have let go if you had been hit right on the shoulder by a great shoe,” said he, rather loudly.

“Hush up!” said Lily. “I wouldn't have let my cats go if I had been killed by a shoe; so there.”

“Serves us right for taking a boy with curls,” said Johnny Trumbull.

But he spoke unadvisedly. Arnold Carruth was no match whatever for Johnny Trumbull, and had never been allowed the honor of a combat with him; but surprise takes even a great champion at a disadvantage. Arnold turned upon Johnny like a flash, out shot a little white fist, up struck a dimpled leg clad in cloth and leather, and down sat Johnny Trumbull; and, worse, open flew his bag, and there was a yowling exodus.

“There go your cats, too, Johnny Trumbull,” said Lily, in a perfectly calm whisper. At that moment both boys, victor and vanquished, felt a simultaneous throb of masculine wrath at Lily. Who was she to gloat over the misfortunes of men? But retribution came swiftly to Lily. That viciously clawing little paw shot out farther, and there was a limit to Spartanism in a little girl born so far from that heroic land. Lily let go of her bag and with difficulty stifled a shriek of pain.

“Whose cats are gone now?” demanded Johnny, rising.

“Yes, whose cats are gone now?” said Arnold.

Then Johnny promptly turned upon him and knocked him down and sat on him.

Lily looked at them, standing, a stately little figure in the darkness. “I am going home,” said she. “My mother does not allow me to go with fighting boys.”

Johnny rose, and so did Arnold, whimpering slightly. His shoulder ached considerably.

“He knocked me down,” said Johnny.

Even as he whimpered and as he suffered, Arnold felt a thrill of triumph. “Always knew I could if I had a chance,” said he.

“You couldn't if I had been expecting it,” said Johnny.

“Folks get knocked down when they ain't expecting it most of the time,” declared Arnold, with more philosophy than he realized.

“I don't think it makes much difference about the knocking down,” said Lily. “All those poor cats and kittens that we were going to give a good home, where they wouldn't be starved, have got away, and they will run straight back to Mr. Jim Simmons's.”

“If they haven't any more sense than to run back to a place where they don't get enough to eat and are kicked about by a lot of children, let them run,” said Johnny.

“That's so,” said Arnold. “I never did see what we were doing such a thing for, anyway--stealing Mr. Simmons's cats and giving them to Mr. Van Ness.”

It was the girl alone who stood by her guns of righteousness. “I saw and I see,” she declared, with dangerously loud emphasis. “It was only our duty to try to rescue poor helpless animals who don't know any better than to stay where they are badly treated. And Mr. Van Ness has so much money he doesn't know what to do with it; he would have been real pleased to give those cats a home and buy milk and liver for them. But it's all spoiled now. I will never undertake to do good again, with a lot of boys in the way, as long as I live; so there!” Lily turned about.

“Going to tell your mother!” said Johnny, with scorn which veiled anxiety.

“No, I'm NOT. I don't tell tales.”

Lily marched off, and in her wake went Johnny and Arnold, two poor little disillusioned would-be knights of old romance in a wretchedly commonplace future, not far enough from their horizons for any glamour.

They went home, and of the three Johnny Trumbull was the only one who was discovered. For him his aunt Janet lay in wait and forced a confession. She listened grimly, but her eyes twinkled.

“You have learned to fight, John Trumbull,” said she, when he had finished. “Now the very next thing you have to learn, and make yourself worthy of your grandfather Trumbull, is not to be a fool.”