“A fish,” ventured Eddy Brown, whose eye fell upon the aquarium in the corner. The raconteuse smiled patiently.
“Now, how could a fish, a live fish, get into my front yard?”
“A dead fish,” says Eddy. He had never been known to relinquish voluntarily an idea.
“No; it was a little kitten,” said the story-teller decidedly. “A little white kitten. She was standing right near a big puddle of water. Now, what else do you think I saw?”
“Another kitten,” suggests Marantha, conservatively.
“No; it was a big Newfoundland dog. He saw the little kitten near the water. Now, cats don't like water, do they? What do they like?”
“Mice,” said Joseph Zukoffsky abruptly.
“Well, yes, they do; but there were no mice in my yard. I'm sure you know what I mean. If they don't like water, what do they like?”
“Milk,” cried Sarah Fuller confidently.
“They like a dry place,” said Mrs. R. B. Smith. “Now, what do you suppose the dog did?”