“Now I see her.”
I saw her too—a huddle of yellow, crouched close.
“I’ll have her in a minute. She’ll either have to drop or be caught.”
And in fact this distressing dilemma was already becoming plain to the marauder herself. Her mewings grew louder and more frequent. A few more contortions brought the climber nearer his victim. A little judicious urging with the rake and she was within reach. The rake came down to me, and a long, wild mew announced that Jonathan had clutched.
“I don’t see how you’re going to get down,” I said, mopping the rain-mist out of my eyes.
“Watch me,” panted the contortionist.
I watched a curious mass descend the tree, the lantern, swinging and jerking, fitfully illumined the pair, and I could see, now a knee and an ear, now a hand and a yellow furry shape, now a white collar, nose, and chin. There was a last, long, scratching slide. I snatched the lantern, and Jonathan stood beside me, holding by the scruff of her neck a very much frazzled yellow cat. We returned to the porch where her victims were—one alive, in a basket, two dead, beside it, and Jonathan, kneeling, held the cat’s nose close to the little bodies while he boxed her ears—once, twice; remonstrant mews rose wild, and with a desperate twist the culprit backed out under his arm and leaped into the blackness.
“Don’t believe she’ll eat young robin for a day or two,” said Jonathan.
“Is that what they were? Where were they?”
“Under the tree. She’d knocked them out.”