Mrs. Watson stopped her work, with her floury hands raised in consternation.
"God's mercy," she cried, "did Pearl do that—and both of them bigger'n her. Ain't it a wonder they did not turn on her?"
"Turn"—-Jimmy cried scornfully, "Turn—is it? They were too busy runnin'. Gosh—they would'a flew if they knew how. Served them right—they knew blame well they deserved it, for Pearl would never have given them the cat if they hadn't worked it so smooth. They told her they wanted a strain of Tiger in their cats, for all of theirs were black—and Pearl, gave them our fine young Tom—and they promised all sorts to be good to him—and when Pearl saw his skin on their caps, and put it to them, they said they hadn't said it was a 'strain of tiger for their cats' they wanted, but a 'strand of tiger for their caps'—that's what made Pearl so mad." Mr. Donald said Pearl did quite right, and he told the Tuckers they were the making of great politicians—they were so smart at getting out of things. But Gosh, you should have seen Pearl! She finished the job off right, too, you bet, and made them put up slab at the school and did the printin' on it in red ink. You can see it there,—they have had to print it over once or twice. We all know the words off by heart:
Young Tom,
Tiger cat,
Owned by P. Watson,
Given away in good faith April 1st,
Wickedly killed to make a cap, April 15th,
Avenged by former owner, May 1st.
T. Tucker. S. Tucker.
People all look at it when they come to the church, and I guess the Tuckers feel pretty small. Pearl says if they are really sorry, it is all right, and young Tom has not died in vain. Every cat has to die sometime, and if he had softened the Tucker's hearts—it is all right. Pearl said she wasn't real sure about them, and I guess if they kill another cat, she'll kill them sure—she said that's the way to do with people like them. Make them repentant—or dead!"
"God save us all," cried Mrs. Watson, in real distress, "whatever will happen to her when she goes out into the world. That's awful talk for a girl especially. Whatever will become of her when she leaves home. She'll be in hot water all the time."
"No fear of Pearlie!" said her father proudly—as he opened the end door of the stove and picked up a coal for his pipe, placing it without undue haste in the bowl, and carefully pressing it down with his thumb. Leaning back in the chintz-covered rocking chair, he spread his feet out to the heat which came from the oven door, and repeated, "No fear of Pearlie—there ain't a girl in the country better able to do for herself. Faith—and she's no fool—and never was—I ain't worrying about Pearlie wherever she goes—or whatever she meets—I ain't worrying."
"You don't worry about anything, John," said Mrs. Watson, in reproof, as she covered the bread with many wrappings and fixed two chairs to hold it behind the stove for the night; "you didn't even worry the night the crop froze, sleepin' and snorin' the whole night through, with me up every half hour watching the thermometer, and it slippin' lower and lower, and the pan o' water on the woodpile gettin' its little slivers of ice around the edge, and when the thermometer went to thirty, I knew it was all up with the wheat, but do you think I could wake you—you rolled over with a grunt, leavin' me alone to think of the two hundred acres gone in the night, after all our hard work … and then to have you come down in the mornin', stretchin' and yawnin', after a good night's sleep, and says you, as cheerful as could be, 'Cold mornin', Ma!'"
John Watson took his pipe from his mouth, and laughed quietly.
"And what was wrong with that, Ma—sure now it was cold—you said yourself it was," he said gently.