“He’s gone home.”
“Well, you go get him. I’ll fish for the cat, but he’d be more likely to get her if he went down. Hurry!”
Our drinking water was pumped out of the well, that was under the kitchen, by means of an endless chain furnished with rubber buckets, and while the well was some thirty feet deep, it would not be much of a job for a man used to it to go down and rescue the cat, supposing that its nine lives held out until he came. I did not think of going down, because I cannot swim, and a single false step would have meant drowning for me, and the husband who throws away his life for a cat has a false sense of values.
Minerva rushed out to within bawling distance of James, and I lighted a candle and lowered it by means of a clothes line for about ten feet.
“I see her! She’s swimming!” I exclaimed, and then the candle went out and I drew it up.
I then tied an eight-quart pail on the line and lowered that, and when I felt it hitting water I called to the cat reassuringly, hoping that it would have sense enough to get inside of the pail. I pulled and felt the weight of the cat.
“I’ve got her,” said I to Ethel and Cherry, who stood, interested spectators, at the kitchen door.
“Oh, how fortunate,” said Ethel.
“Yes, Minerva needn’t have called James. My, the cat must be water logged. She’s heavy.”
I pulled hand over hand, and at last the pail was near enough for me to reach down and taking it’s bail, pull it over the edge.