“At the word ‘jail,’ every robber inside of a bag began to scream, and beg to be let out, and”—
“Oh, do let them out!” begged Phronsie. “Please do, Polly.”
“Oh, Phronsie, I can’t!” said Polly. “They are bad, naughty, wicked robbers, you know; and they’d kill that nice, dear old cat, maybe, if they got out.”
“Would they?” asked Phronsie anxiously.
“Yes, indeed,” cried all the little circle together.
“I really think, Phronsie,” added Grandpapa decidedly, “that it is not safe for Polly to let those bad robbers out.”
“Don’t tie the bags up very tight, then, please, Polly,” begged Phronsie.
“Polly will fix it all right, Phronsie,” said Jasper, with a smile. Polly thanked him with a little nod, and hurried on. “Well, so you see, off they all went to jail. It was a great big stone house, oh! as big as three or four houses that folks live in, and there was a row of pens that”—
“Pig-pens?” asked Joel abruptly.
“Dear me, no,” said Polly, with a little laugh. “They were prisoners’ pens; and the wise old cat just raced along as hard as she could, all the twelve men, with their bags on their backs, coming after. And she spoke up, as bold as you please, to the man at the gate, who had a big iron key in his hand, oh! as big as could be, ‘I’ve got a dozen robbers for you to shut up and keep fast.’