“Just when the noise was at its worst, Grandfather woke up and came in. Of course, Squirrie hid, and there stood Cross-Patch trembling in every limb, his sorry eyes going to the torn candy bags and popcorn strewed over the floor.
“‘So—you are a backslider,’ said the old man. ‘Well, you have robbed my children, and I shall have to beat you.’ He was a patient old man, but now he was angry, and Cross-Patch was getting some good whacks and stripes from a rope end, when he began to choke over the squirrel fur in his mouth.
“The old man stopped beating, stared at him, and took the little bunch of fur that Cross-Patch spat out, and examined it. Then he dropped his rope and went to the tree.
“His face fell, and he looked sad. ‘Punish first, and examine afterward,’ he said. ‘How many persons do that with children. Why did I not observe that a dog could not have so despoiled this little tree without knocking it over? It is that pest of a squirrel who has been here. I might have known. Dog, I beg your pardon,’ and he shook hands quite solemnly with
Cross-Patch who took on the air of a suffering martyr.”
“And what did Squirrie do?” I asked. “Was his heart touched?”
“Not a bit of it. He went home chuckling, but what do you think he found?”
“I don’t know much about squirrel ways,” I said.
“I do,” said Chummy, “and they are fine-spirited little creatures, except the few that like to suck birds’ eggs and kill young. All the sparrows liked Chickari, and after that night he was a perfect hero among us. He knew Squirrie pretty well, and was sure he would remain to gloat over his mischief, so he whipped off to his cupboard—”
“Whose cupboard?” I asked. “His own, or Squirrie’s?”