"Lucky!" Phil said blissfully, lifting the cat closer.
Five claws raked his chin painfully, while fifteen others dug into his hands.
He looked at the little face. Except for its color, it was a most ordinary, though spittingly furious cat face. In fact, it was a most ordinary cat.
And he could smell the dye.
"Here," he said calmly and handed the animal to Greeley.
"Lucky?" Greeley yelled as the claws sank into his hands. "It's a dye-job, or I'll eat it! They had it all ready and threw it out to misdirect us. Come on! Here, take it, Simms, we've got to keep it to be on the safe side."
And presumably a third man's hands got clawed as they sprinted to the car.
But Phil was not with them. He hadn't the heart. As the rockets roared again, he simply stood halfway down the alley, scratched and weary.