“They’re up to some mischief, probably,” said Eunice. “Come on, Cricket.”
But Cricket lingered, with her head over her shoulder.
“They’re certainly teasing something, Eunice,” she said, in sudden excitement. “Some animal,—perhaps it is a cat—no, it isn’t—it’s Johnnie-goat! Those horrid wretches!” as an unmistakable bleat rose long and loud. “Eunice, I must stop them!”
Bang went the book on the pavement, and off darted Cricket.
“Come back, Cricket! Don’t go there,” called Eunice, urgently. “They might hurt you. You can’t stop them. Cricket!”
But she called to deaf ears, for Cricket flew on, and Eunice, with the instinct never to desert Mr. Micawber, picked up the library book, and followed in much trepidation.
Cricket dashed into the centre of the group like a small cyclone, and the little gamins fell back, right and left, in sheer amazement. Her scarlet Tam was on the back of her head, her curls were rampant with the wind, and her eyes were blazing with indignation like two stars.
Poor Johnnie-goat was indeed in trouble. A tin can dangled from his short tail, and on his horns were two similar ornaments, which bumped and clattered as he made ineffective plunges at his enemies. Besides these, stout strings were tied to each horn, so that his head could be jerked this way and that, as he jumped about, half frantic with rage and terror. One of the boys prodded him with a sharp stick.
“You shameful wretches!” rang out Cricket’s clear tones. “I wish some big giant would come and torment you, so! How dare you!” she snatched the strings from the boy’s hands, and held them firmly in her own strong little fingers.
“Where is your knife?” she said, imperiously, to the biggest boy.