"Muskrats." Andy peered between the slats of one crate at two brown-furred animals about as big as cottontail rabbits. "Six mated pairs."
Johnny asked whimsically, "What are you going to do with 'em, Andy?"
"See if they like my swamp. I forgot my pack board, Johnny. Will you loan me one?"
"Sure thing."
"Would you mind letting me pick them up after dark?"
"Any time you say. You'd just as soon keep it private, huh?"
"I'd just as soon," Andy agreed. "Nobody will know I have them if I take them in after dark."
A moment before the sack landed in the brush, all three kittens turned so that the entire trio landed on their feet. This was not an instinctive move but a planned one that was possible because a cat thinks so swiftly. They would not have been hurt if they'd been thrown on rocks.
As it was, the yielding branches of the brush broke their fall, so that they came to earth almost gently. Wild-eyed, panting, the two gray kittens stretched full-length and waited tensely. As tense as his brothers, Frosty was not satisfied merely to wait. A true son of the black-and-white tom, he had inherited all that old warrior's character, courage and spirit.