“I shan't!” she cried frantically. “I shan't! He ain't! He's my cat and he don't steal chickens.”
“Yes, he does, too,” roared Con. “Pop and I see him doin' it.”
“You didn't! I don't believe it! When did you see him?”
“Yesterday afternoon. We see him, didn't we, Pop?”
“You bet your life we did,” growled Abner. “And he was on my land again just now; comin' to steal more, I cal'late. Fetch him here.”
“I—I shan't! He shan't be shot, even if he did steal 'em. And I know he didn't. If you shoot him I'll—I'll tell Uncle Zoeth and—and Cap'n Gould. And I won't let you have him anyhow. I won't,” with savage defiance. “If you shoot him you'll have to shoot me, too.”
Con climbed over the wall. “You just wait, Pop,” he said. “I'll take him away from her.”
But his father hesitated. There were certain reasons why he thought it best not to be too arbitrary.
“Hold on, Con,” he said. “Look here, sis, I'm sorry to have to kill your cat, but I've got to. He steals chickens and them kind of cats has to be shot. I see him myself yesterday afternoon. I told Isaiah Chase myself that . . . why, you was there and heard me! You heard me tell how I was lookin' out of the winder at quartet past four and see that cat—”
Mary-'Gusta interrupted. Her expression changed. She was still dreadfully frightened but in her tone was a note of relief, of confident triumph.