"Wait! I think it's picking up a bit," said the red-haired man.
The shapeless green creature was still writhing on the grass; twenty pairs of eyes were following its movements, and there was not the shadow of a smile in any of them. All were serious, all were silent, all of them were as miserable to look upon as that kitten, just as if it had communicated its suffering to them and they were feeling its pangs.
"Pick up a bit, indeed!" laughed the hobbledehoy sardonically, raising his voice, "very much so! Poor puss has had his day. We all loved him. Why did we torture him so? Let someone put him out of his misery."
"And who was the cause of it all?" shrieked the red-haired prisoner savagely. "Why there he is, with his devilish joke!"
"Come," said Zazubrina soothingly, "didn't the whole lot of you agree to it?"
And he hugged himself as if he were cold.
"The whole lot of us, indeed!" sneered the hobbledehoy, "I like that. You alone are to blame!—yes, you are!"
"Don't you roar, pray, you bull-calf!" meekly suggested Zazubrina.
The grey-headed old man took up the kitten, and after carefully examining it, pronounced his opinion:
"If we were to dip it in kerosene we might wash the paint off."