“And now,” said Shireen, “I am going to reserve the last part of my story till we meet again, for, Cracker, your folks must think you are lost, and I can see that the cockatoo yonder is standing on one foot and half asleep.”
“Cockie wants to go to bed,” cried Uncle Ben’s pet, arousing himself, and lifting his great white, yellow-lined wings as if he would fly.
“As for me,” said Cracker, “I’d sit and hear you talk all night, you bet.”
“And so would I,” said Warlock.
“The more I see and learn of cats,” continued Cracker, “the more I respects them like, and I don’t care a rat’s tail what the other dogs say about me. There’s that butcher’s rag of a bull-terrier, for instance, goin’ and tellin’ the whole village that I’m often seen in cats’ company, and that I’m half a cat myself. Well, I says, says I, I might be something worse. But, bless you, Shireen, next time I meets he, I’m going to let him out.”
“I wouldn’t kill him quite,” said Shireen.
“Oh, no. I’ll just shake him like. They kind o’ dogs can be killed over and over again, and don’t take much hurt. Besides, you know,” he added knowingly, “it will teach the varmint manners.”
“I say, you know,” said Warlock, “I think the quarrel with the butcher’s cur should be mine.”
“Nonsense, Warlock, he would swallow you up.”
“All! you don’t know how much fight there is in me when I’m fairly angered. Well, I keep company with Tabby here. We hunt together, don’t we, Tab?”