CHAPTER XII.
“I tell you, you must do it!”
“I won’t!”
There was considerable “substance” in each voice. Melville, however, had the advantage of years and his terrible “roar,” which, even accustomed as he had become to it, Fritzy never heard without a little tremor.
The child stood at a safe distance from the invalid’s lounge, and held in his hands a worn and scraggy old cat. “I say she is my very own, ’cause I found her. She ain’t yours, nor she ain’t grandma’s. They sha’n’t nobody touch a bit of her. She’s mine.”
“In the interests of science, Fritzy,” said Melville, changing his tone.
“Don’t care nothin’ about the int’rusts of science; my cat is my own.”
“I’ll buy her of you.”
“Don’t want to sell her.”
“Fifty cents will get an awful lot of taffy.”