“Will any one come out alive?” I gasped. “Oh! this is terrible! Surely half will be crippled for life,” and I gazed in fascinated terror at the big, whirling, moving, hairy bunch of cat figures leaping, vaulting, yelling and spitting like furies.
Slyboots was grinning. “I see mother cats pitchin' into their own young ones,” she said sarcastically. “I guess they don't know what they're about.”
Aunt Tabby was not nearly as concerned as we were. “Cats round here often have such bouts,” she said, “when they come together. You see our lives are quiet, and we like a little excitement occasionally.”
“But don't they kill each other?” I mewed at the top of my voice, in order to make myself heard above the tumult about me.
“When this scrimmage is over,” replied Aunt Tabby, “there won't be a bunch of hair the size of your head on the ground. It's mostly fuss and fury—It's a pity Blizzard isn't here. He would enjoy this. He gets round on such occasions, and nips every cat he has a grudge against. It's a great chance to pay off any old scores.”
“There's Blizzard,” she cried, “and your sister, and Joker, and Rosy.”
Sure enough, four cat figures were coming hurriedly round the corner of the barn. I learned afterward that Blizzard and Joker had attempted a dignified escort of Serena to the lecturer's hogshead, but on hearing the tumult, and making the discovery that the dogs were after us, they broke into a run.
Joker stood on his hind legs, and sprang in the air just yelling, “Dogs!” and old Blizzard leaping in among the combatants, dealt a cuff here, and a kick and bite there, and shrieked at the top of his voice, “Dogs!—take to the cranberry bog.”
Aunt Tabby understood. “Come,” she said, and we were the first to leave the scene of action.
Springing off the fence, she ran like the wind across the now dark pasture, where little Mary had walked so gaily this morning.