Was Fandy tired? Not a bit. Practice had fired his soul. "Come on, Dorothy!" he cried. "Pull to-o! I mean, fall to-o!"
But Dorry thanked him and declined; whereat a thought struck the young champion. His expression grew fierce and resolute as, seizing the foil with a sterner grip, he turned to Donald.
"There's a cat up stairs. I guess it's a wild-cat. D' YOU WANT IT KILLED?"
"Oh, you little monster!" cried Dorry, rushing to the door and standing with her back against it. "Would you do such a thing as that?"
"I would to d'fend myself," said Fandy, stoutly. "Don't hunters kill tigers?"
"But this isn't a tiger, nor even a wild-cat. It's tame. It's our Nan!"
"Let him go try," spoke up Donald. "He'll get the worst of it."
"Indeed I'll not let him try, either," cried Dorry, still holding her position.
But Fandy already was beginning to cool down. Second thoughts came to his rescue.
"I don't believe in hurtin' tame animals," said he. "It's naughty," and the foil and mask were laid carefully upon the table.