“There go your cats, too, Johnny Trumbull,” said Lily, in a perfectly calm whisper. At that moment both boys, victor and vanquished, felt a simultaneous throb of masculine wrath at Lily. Who was she to gloat over the misfortunes of men? But retribution came swiftly to Lily. That viciously clawing little paw shot out farther, and there was a limit to Spartanism in a little girl born so far from that heroic land. Lily let go of her bag and with difficulty stifled a shriek of pain.
“Whose cats are gone now?” demanded Johnny, rising.
“Yes, whose cats are gone now?” said Arnold.
Then Johnny promptly turned upon him and knocked him down and sat on him.
Lily looked at them, standing, a stately little figure in the darkness. “I am going home,” said she. “My mother does not allow me to go with fighting boys.”
Johnny rose, and so did Arnold, whimpering slightly. His shoulder ached considerably.
“He knocked me down,” said Johnny.
Even as he whimpered and as he suffered, Arnold felt a thrill of triumph. “Always knew I could if I had a chance,” said he.
“You couldn't if I had been expecting it,” said Johnny.
“Folks get knocked down when they ain't expecting it most of the time,” declared Arnold, with more philosophy than he realized.