David had begun to play, but he stopped his music with a discordant stroke of the bow.
"What are you doing? What is the matter with that cat?" he demanded.
"'Matter'!" called a derisive voice. "Sure, nothin' 's the matter with her. She's the Queen o' the Ballet—she is!"
"What do you mean?" cried David. At that moment the string bit hard into the captured tail, and the kitten cried out with the pain. "Look out! You're hurting her," cautioned David sharply.
Only a laugh and a jeering word answered. Then the kitten, with the bag on its head and the tin can tied to its tail, was let warily to the ground, the tall boy still holding its back with both hands.
"Ready, now! Come on, play," he ordered; "then we'll set her dancing."
David's eyes flashed.
"I will not play—for that."
The boys stopped laughing suddenly.
"Eh? What?" They could scarcely have been more surprised if the kitten itself had said the words.