“Fighting,” began my father solemnly, “is a low-down, vulgar way of settling disputes, and brings not only the participant, but also his or her family,” and he stared significantly at Jimmy Dory, “into disagreeable and unendurable prominence.”
“Just what I say,” interposed Serena with a toss of her head. “Here am I being pointed out as the sister of the fighting cat on Beacon Street.”
“It's fun, isn't it, when you get your blood up?” said Jimmy Dory to me in a low voice.
I shook my head. I had found no fun in fighting.
“I should advise you,” continued my father, “not to let it happen again.”
Well pleased to think that I had got off so cheaply, I yet plucked up courage enough to say meekly, “Suppose she takes my bed again?”
“Choose another,” said my father decidedly. “You are only a kitten. You are not settled in your habits. Now, if it were a question of a cat of my age giving up his bed, it would be another matter.”
“Suppose another cat should take your bed, father,” I inquired humbly, “what would you do?”
He said nothing, but there was a dangerous glitter in his eye as he looked at me.
“I bet you'd wallop him till there wasn't a grain of sense left in him,” exclaimed Jimmy Dory feelingly. Then he ran under a big chair, for my father's paw was uplifted threateningly.