“He can still crawl,” admitted Chet.
“That fly’s a perfect idiot,” declared Lance, warmly. “It’s the same one that was in the hot gravy a little while ago. I hope he takes a chill. What does he think this is—a turkish bath?”
They lingered long at the table, until finally Liz (who had agreed to “clean up”) drove them all out of the tent. They finished the ice-cream 138 (which Reddy and Short and Long declared had to be eaten up because there was not ice enough to keep it out in the open), with the light fading out of the western sky and the early fireflies flitting about the edge of the wood.
The Barnacle began to bark vociferously, all of a sudden. Lizzie, up at the lighted cook-tent, squealed.
Up rose the boys with a great whoop. “Go for it!” yelled Lance. “Sick ’im!” which seems to be the approved way to set a dog on anything living.
Barnacle was barking his foolish head off. He dashed across from the cook-tent to the woods, and then back again. The boys all urged him on. The girls ran together in a frightened group, Lil moaning:
“Oh, he’s here again! that dreadful man is here again!”
“Hush you!” commanded Liz, in disgust. “’Tain’t no man. ’Tain’t even a ha’nt. I seen it. It’s a black and white kitten––”
“Oh, Chet! call him off! call him off!” begged Laura.
“Quick, Chet!” added Jess. “Don’t let that horrid dog hurt that kitty.”