“You must save my darling Zaza from that dog.”
Then she tailed off into hysterical sobs, but did not release her grip.
“Madam, I’m in great haste,” retorted Barnes, striving to wriggle free from her grip. “I would advise you to call a policeman.”
“There is no policeman,” sobbed the distressed mistress of Zaza. “Oh, you m-m-m-must s-s-s-save my Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-aza. Oo-oo!”
Then Barnes glimpsed the dog and its fang-filled grin as it stared up at the cat.
“You don’t expect me to tackle that dog?” he asked, backing away and making another effort to free himself.
“Shoot him! do anything to him!” insisted the distressed female. “Oo-oo-oo! he kills cats. Do something quick or I must scream.”
Whitney Barnes would have welcomed an open manhole to vanish into. If that woman screamed and held fast to him till the police came it would be just as bad as the baby case. But if he tackled the dog he would probably go to the hospital and be afflicted with hydrophobia and all sorts of things.
“Calm yourself my dear woman,” he said frantically. “The dog cannot climb the tree and your cat is perfectly safe.”