“Oh, ma'am, they might be burglars!”
“How can they be burglars when they are cats?” demanded Mrs. Meeks, testily.
Arnold Carruth snickered, and Johnny on one side, and Lily on the other, prodded him with an elbow. They were close under the window.
“Burglars is up to all sorts of queer tricks, ma'am,” said Jane. “They may mew like cats to tell one another what door to go in.”
“Jane, you talk like an idiot,” said Mrs. Meeks. “Burglars talking like cats! Who ever heard of such a thing? It sounds right under that window. Open my closet door and get those heavy old shoes and throw them out.”
It was an awful moment. The three dared not move. The cats and kittens in the bags—not so many, after all—seemed to have turned into multiplication-tables. They were positively alarming in their determination to get out, their wrath with one another, and their vociferous discontent with the whole situation.
“I can't hold my bag much longer,” said poor little Arnold Carruth.
“Hush up, cry-baby!” whispered Lily, fiercely, in spite of a clawing paw emerging from her own bag and threatening her bare arm.
Then came the shoes. One struck Arnold squarely on the shoulder, nearly knocking him down and making him lose hold of his bag. The other struck Lily's bag, and conditions became worse; but she held on despite a scratch. Lily had pluck.
Then Jane's voice sounded very near, as she leaned out of the window. “I guess they have went, ma'am,” said she. “I seen something run.”