For a cat to permit herself to be caught by a dog while running away is the worst possible policy for the cat, because the pursuer gets her by the brick and the spine is broken. Shireen knew this, and she also knew there was no way of escape handy, no railing to run through, no doorway to enter, no tree to climb, so she determined to sell her life dearly.
Round she turned, and the blow she caught that dog staggered him for a little, and the blood ran over his face.
All in vain though. He came on now with redoubled ferocity, and down went poor Shireen.
Emily screamed and flew to her assistance.
But in two seconds more a true hero came to the rescue. This was none other save Cracker himself, the large Airedale terrier.
“Here, lad!” cried Cracker, or seemed to cry in good broad honest Yorkshire English. “What’s tha’ doin’ wi’ t’ould cat?”
He did not give the butcher’s dog time to reply, but, seizing him by the back of the neck, shook him as if he had been a rat.
Never in his life before had Danger received so severe a chastisement. In three minutes’ time he was running down the street on three legs, and all covered with blood and dust.
Shireen quietly reseated herself in the baby’s carriage, and Emily didn’t know what to do with perfect joy. She got Cracker round the neck and positively hugged him.
“Oh, you dear good noble dog,” she cried. “Here, you must have a drop of milk.”