“Here, lend a hand, all of you, at this rope,” said I, and we all began to pull.
Of course it meant that next day James would have to pump the well dry and get the poor little body of the poor little cat. What a lot of excitement and suspense and labour over one smallish cat. Indeed, what a risk of life, for James might easily have hit his head when he fell.
We hung back on the rope like sailors, and James climbed higher and higher, and at last his black hand came up and grasped the edge of the curb, and a moment later, dripping and shivering, he stood upon the floor.
And then we heard the voice of a cat. I rushed to the well and looked in, but the sounds did not come from there. They came from out of doors.
“That sounds like her,” said James.
“It’s her ghost,” said Minerva. “She’s comin’ to ha’nt me.”
Illogically enough we all pictured the cat standing outside of the door dripping water.
I opened the door and in walked Miss Pussy, as dry as a bone, and began to rub against Minerva’s skirts.
“Why, she’s dry,” said Ethel.
Minerva burst out laughing. “My, I clean forgot. I shut her out doors before I began moppin’.”