“He is daring some one to come and wrestle with him,” Aunt Tabby informed us.
His challenge was soon answered. Another young cat, this one gray in color, sprang down from the boards to meet him.
They closed with each other, and began to wrestle and tumble about. It was very funny to see them, until they grew angry, and began to pull hair.
“That is nearly always the way,” sighed Aunt Tabby, “a wrestle ends in a fight. There goes the Maltese cat's father. Why doesn't he keep out of it?”
A very spiteful-looking old Maltese cat, seeing that his son was under the gray, took it upon himself to interfere, whereupon another big cat who was, Aunt Tabby said, an uncle to the gray, also took it upon himself to interfere.
The two big old cats, and the two young ones, had a regular mix-up. They were pommelling each other in grand style, when a shriek was heard from the orchard.
The Maltese cat's mother was just arriving, and hearing that her son and husband were fighting, she threw herself upon their opponents, and being promptly seized by the old gray cat, got her ears boxed for interfering.
She was in a fearful temper. Standing a little aside, she just yelled to all her friends and relatives for help. There was a dreadful scene after that. Reserved seats, and other seats were vacated, and the conflict became general. Only Aunt Tabby, Slyboots and I sat on the fence.
“Oh! this is awful!” I said. “Never in Boston, where cats are supposed to have such powerful voices, have I heard such yelling and caterwauling.”
“They had better look out,” remarked Aunt Tabby, “or the dogs will hear them. They are too near the house for such a racket.”