"White paint?" said the shopman. "I think so. I think so. For iron work?"
"Well," admitted William, "it's really for fur—I mean——" he corrected himself hastily, "for somethin'—for somethin' a bit softer than iron."
"For wood?" suggested the old man.
"I 'speck that'd do," said William, "and a brush too, please."
They retired to a deserted field to perform the delicate task.
William took the brush in one hand and put down the paint-pot on the grass by his feet. Then he took out the cat.
"Now, I'm going to do this," he explained "because I want it done prop'ly. I don't want this cat let loose all over the place."
He held the cat in one hand and drew a bold line of white paint down its back. The next moment he was sucking a deep, red scratch on either hand, and a white-flecked tabby cat was disappearing in the distance.
"You did that all right, din't you?" said Ginger, not without satisfaction.
William rose wearily, picking up the empty basket. He was too disheartened even to save what was left of the paint.