"Acknowledge you're licked," he said, helping Jimmy to his feet.
"I'm licked, all right, and I'm also skinned, all right," grumbled Jimmy. "Ouch! I've knocked more skin off my hip than I did all through the football season." He limped around rubbing the injured member.
"I've got a bottle of arnica at the room; come on back and I'll fix you up," laughed Frank. "Sorry, old man, but you can't run till you stretch your legs more. They're too short."
"I don't want arnica; I want some nice tough skin. If you have any of that down there to spare, I'll go back with you. S-s-s-s-h—what was that?"
Jimmy's ear had caught a sound like a long-drawn-out cry. "Didn't you hear it, Frank?"
"You have a singing in your ears, Jimmy," said Frank. "Come along, I'll give you my arm."
"There it is again," said Jimmy in a whisper. "Listen!"
As they stood with their heads cocked, there came a long wail as of something in distress. It sounded half human, half animal, and was quite terrifying. It seemed to come out of the air above them.
"Great Peter, what is it?" said Jimmy, clutching Frank by the arm.
Frank began to laugh. "It does sound bad, certainly. She's trying to get the tune of 'America' just right, I guess. It's the cat, or I miss my guess."