The voice came out into the hall; Minerva had evidently followed the cat out.
“Yeah, you’ll get a mouse behin’ there. You wait—”
We heard a grunt such as some people make when they lift something heavy, and then a characteristic chuckle, and then a half agonized,
“Ooh, come out, come out, Miss Pussy. You’ll git squished. I can’t hold it. Come out.”
“What is happening now?” said I to Ethel.
“Oh, some of her tomfoolery. I’m out of patience with her.”
“Mist. Vernon! Mist. Vernon! quick! qui-i-ck! I can’t hol’ much longer! Pussy’ll be squished!”
I rushed up those familiar stairs, followed by Ethel, and there stood Minerva, her eyes nearly popping out of her head as she tried with bare success to hold up the heavy chest full of magazines.
Of the cat nothing was to be seen except a twitching tail that told me she was underneath the chest watching a mouse in calm obliviousness of the fact that her mistress was using all her strength in an effort to save her from becoming only a map of a cat.
“Hold on a minute,” I cried, rushing to her assistance, but just as I reached her the chest slipped from her fingers.