One cold day in December Paula and I were walking slowly along the street, studying our lessons as we walked. Suddenly we heard the piercing cries of a cat in distress. Paula, always touched by suffering of any kind, stopped to listen. Louder came the cries of the cat.
"Mee-ow, mee-ow."
Paula threw her grammar on a road-side bench. "Poor little thing," I cried, "we can't help him, for I can't see where he can possibly be."
"Well, I can't stop here," said Paula. "Come along, we'll soon find him."
We ran over to the canal which ran along a few feet below the avenue.
Suddenly I was afraid!
"Perhaps Joseph, the Breton's son, is mixed up in this!" I said trembling.
"Come along anyway, unless you want me to go alone," Paula said quietly. So
I followed her.
Sure enough, it was the Breton's son surrounded by a dozen ragamuffins of his own set. They took no notice of us. He had a beautiful black cat, that had a string tied to its hind legs. The boy was swinging it around his head and at times ducking it in the canal while his companions danced around him with delight.
"Now that he's good and wet, let's bury him," suggested Joseph.
"Alive?" said his comrades.