But, ah! the reason was—
“I’m afraid, Tip, that if you run back to school, you’ll be too tired to scare them much, and if you walk back, you’ll lose most of your foam and slobber. And perhaps we might be too late, anyhow. Upon my word,” he cried suddenly, “I never planned how I am to get you into the building! I can’t go with you, and you can’t get in alone!”
In his indecision, Stephen retraced his steps to the gate of the school-grounds, opened it, and with his eyes tried to measure the distance from that place to the castellated school-house—Tip, meanwhile, recovering his strength and sportiveness.
On a sudden, Fate interposed in the form of a muscular and war-worn cat, which appeared leisurely crossing the school-grounds. Tip saw it, and forgetting his weariness, furiously gave chase.
“Sic it, Tip! Sic it!” cried Steve, who, in the excitement of the moment, apparently forgot his trick, and eagerly joined in pursuit.
Tip soon came up with his hereditary enemy, and a frightful combat ensued. Instinct or the force of habit impelled warlike puss to fight stoutly for escape, and he rained blows and execrations, (in the cat language,) that would have done credit to a battle-scarred pirate, upon his assailant.
Tip fought because of his “liking for the thing,” and because his master was pricking him on to victory by such spirit-stirring exclamations as: “Oh, sic it, Tip! Go for him! Beat ’em! Maul ’em! Sh! sh! sh!”
Rabid canine and outraged feline! Would that the professor could have beheld the combat between them!
Presently the dog, with a piteous howl, ceased to fight, and rubbed his head vigorously on the ground; whilst the cat, seizing its opportunity, scampered away towards the school-house.