“I don't think it makes much difference about the knocking down,” said Lily. “All those poor cats and kittens that we were going to give a good home, where they wouldn't be starved, have got away, and they will run straight back to Mr. Jim Simmons's.”
“If they haven't any more sense than to run back to a place where they don't get enough to eat and are kicked about by a lot of children, let them run,” said Johnny.
“That's so,” said Arnold. “I never did see what we were doing such a thing for, anyway—stealing Mr. Simmons's cats and giving them to Mr. Van Ness.”
It was the girl alone who stood by her guns of righteousness. “I saw and I see,” she declared, with dangerously loud emphasis. “It was only our duty to try to rescue poor helpless animals who don't know any better than to stay where they are badly treated. And Mr. Van Ness has so much money he doesn't know what to do with it; he would have been real pleased to give those cats a home and buy milk and liver for them. But it's all spoiled now. I will never undertake to do good again, with a lot of boys in the way, as long as I live; so there!” Lily turned about.
“Going to tell your mother!” said Johnny, with scorn which veiled anxiety.
“No, I'm NOT. I don't tell tales.”
Lily marched off, and in her wake went Johnny and Arnold, two poor little disillusioned would-be knights of old romance in a wretchedly commonplace future, not far enough from their horizons for any glamour.
They went home, and of the three Johnny Trumbull was the only one who was discovered. For him his aunt Janet lay in wait and forced a confession. She listened grimly, but her eyes twinkled.
“You have learned to fight, John Trumbull,” said she, when he had finished. “Now the very next thing you have to learn, and make yourself worthy of your grandfather Trumbull, is not to be a fool.”
“Yes, Aunt Janet,” said Johnny.