When that was settled satisfactorily, he took off the pretty cover of a big down pillow, and drew it cautiously over the unsuspecting cat’s head. Tired with many wanderings, she did not in the slightest resist; especially as Melville’s touch was soft and caressing, deluding not only the four-footed victim but the little traitor who had sold her unto death.
“Now, Fritz, you go to that other closet beside the chimney. Take out some of the books that are on the floor, and fix the latch so it works all right. Can you shut it tight?”
“Tight as a drum!”
“Put the bottle in there, and get the cork all ready to take out, but don’t you take it out yet.”
“I’ve done that. What next?” Fritz was too genuine a boy not to have entered into the spirit of this dark transaction by that time. His blue eyes were big with importance; his cheeks glowed; he whistled softly to himself.
“Next is—the job itself. Now, you must understand clearly. If you don’t, it’ll be a fizzle. I’m half sorry I didn’t get somebody bigger to help me.”
The tone and the words put Fritz on his mettle. “I’m big enough to kill a old cat, I reckon! If I ain’t, I should like to know!”
“Remember, it won’t hurt her. So, if she struggles, don’t you back out.”
“I won’t,” said Fritz, stoutly.
“Then, take the animal and fire ahead. When you get her into the closet, pull the stopper out of the bottle, open the bag and pour it in, and shut the door.”