‘Yes, ma’am, in his tree,’ said the maid.
In this tree Rangoon used to sit like a Thug, dropping down on dogs who passed by.
Presently the maid said, ‘Ma’am, Rangoon has jumped down, and is walking off to the right, after a gentleman.’
‘After a sparrow, I dare say, bless him,’ said Miss Blowser. Two minutes later she asked, ‘Has Rangy come back?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Just look out and see what he is doing, the dear.’
‘He’s walking along the pavement, ma’am, sniffing at something. And oh! there’s that curate’s dog.’
‘Yelping little brute! I hope Rangy will give him snuff,’ said Miss Blowser.
‘He’s flown at him,’ cried the maid ambiguously, in much excitement. ‘Oh, ma’am, the gentleman has caught hold of Rangoon. He’s got a wire mask on his face, and great thick gloves, not to be scratched. He’s got Rangoon: he’s putting him in a bag,’ but by this time Miss Blowser, brandishing a saucepan with a long handle, had rushed out of the kitchen, through the little garden, cannoned against Mr. Fulton, who happened to be coming in with flowers to decorate his table, knocked him against a
lamp-post, opened the garden gate, and, armed and bareheaded as she was, had rushed forth. You might have deemed that you beheld Bellona speeding to the fray.