“And Higby,” said Tom, kindly, “I was only in fun when I called you a dog. You’re not one really, you know.”
“Be I a c-c-cat,” inquired Higby, mildly.
Tom’s evil genius prompted him to yield to his impulse to make fun.
“Yes,” he said, wildly, “meow, meow, poor pussy. Scat! Scat!”
He pretended to spit and hiss, and Higby scuttled precipitately downstairs.
Tom watched him going, then he said, soberly, “How much would you sell that fellow for, Titus?”
“Grandfather likes him,” said the boy, briefly, “and he was nasty to you because he had been told to let no one in.”
“Does your grandfather let your servants eat just what you do?” inquired Tom, curiously.
“The very same. You ought to see his bills in strawberry season.”
“Berty does the same; everyone in the house shares alike,” continued Tom, “but my people don’t. They would think they couldn’t afford it. Hello, here we are,” and he entered the Judge’s study.