“Meow!” it broadcasted unhappily.
“An’ it had such a pretty tail, too,” sighed Mrs. O’Mally.
I was still staring.
“But how did it escape the cat killer?” I cried. And then, as my mind took in a wider and more important sweep, I inquired of my chum how he had escaped the cat killer, too.
“Our ‘cat killer,’ Jerry, instead of being a one-armed man, has turned out to be a boy.”
“Him?” I switched my staring eyes from the cat to the unconscious form on the couch.
Nodding, the leader then told me what had happened in the cellar.
“As you remember, I ran down the stairs with a flashlight, determined to get a squint at the cat killer this time before he could make his usual slick get-away. But the cellar was empty. The cat, though, was still yowling bloody murder. I tried to spot it, thinking now, from the choked sound, that a tub or box had fallen on top of it. But it, too, was gone. Finally, though, I traced it to the chimney base. You know how big the chimney base is. Right in the middle of the cellar floor, too. The cat was inside! And there on the floor was a piece of its tail! Instead of being solid brick, as we had supposed, I saw now that one whole side of the chimney base was made of sheet iron, painted to look like brickwork, and hung on hidden hinges. The quick closing of this secret door had trapped the snooping cat, not only catching it by the tail but completely cutting off the tip. The door, of course, hadn’t opened and closed of its own accord. Hardly! And afraid that if I waited for you it might be locked on the inside, I gave the chimney corner a sharp tug, figuring that this was the edge of the secret door, and, sure enough, the whole west side of the chimney swung back as pretty as you please. This, of course, freed the cat, though not until it had lost the tip of its tail, as I say. Turning the flashlight into the chimney passage I saw the cat scooting down a flight of winding stairs. I went down the stairs, too, the door closing behind me. I was in a sort of well. Then I came to a room at the foot of the stairs. My flashlight picked up a boy. I had expected to see a man! Lighting into him, we both dropped our flashlights. And for two or three minutes we tussled in the dark. What I aimed to do, of course, was to make a prisoner of him. I guess I soaked him pretty hard. Anyway, he took a back flop. When I saw that he had struck his head on the stone floor, and was unconscious, I lugged him up the winding stairs, and here he is.”
Mrs. O’Mally brushed back the long black hair from the white forehead.
“A nice-lookin’ b’y, too,” says she, in her motherly way. “Sure, ’tis hard for me to think ill of him.”