Bellwattle screamed.
“Oh, the little wretch! If I could only catch it!”
“What—the mouse?” shouted Cruikshank.
“No, no; the wretched little kitten! Look at the way she’s torturing it! Oh, I never saw such a cruel little beast in all my life!” and her face grew rosy red.
Now, Cruikshank is a dutiful husband. Moreover, he knows positively nothing about women. Perhaps that is why. When, therefore, he realised that it was the kitten who was the cruel little beast, and a sense of duty claiming him, he chased it all over the garden, picking up stones as he ran.
“Make her drop it!” cried Bellwattle.
“I will, if I can hit her,” replied Cruikshank and, like a cowboy throwing a lasso from a galloping horse, he flung a stone. The kitten was struck upon the flank and in its terror it dropped the mouse and fled. Cruikshank approached it and, he assures me, with much pride in his prowess picked up the poor little mouse by the hind leg. Then he looked up and saw Bellwattle’s face. It was white—ashen white.
“You’ve hurt her,” she said, half under her breath.
“It’s better than hurt,” said Cruikshank—“it’s dead.”
“No—the kitten—you hit it with a stone.”