"Say, mister," he said, "if the cat starts this way you and your girl start a hollerin' like----"
"All right," interrupted Brown, and turned toward the vision of loveliness and distress which was now standing on the top of her own back fence holding fast to a wistaria trellis and flattering Clarence with low and honeyed appeals.
The cat, however, was either too stupid or too confused to respond; he gazed blankly at his mistress, and when Brown began furtively edging his way toward him Clarence arose, stood a second in alert indecision, then began to back away.
"We've got him between us!" called out Brown. "If you'll stand ready to seize him when I drive him----"
There was a wild scurry, a rush, a leap, frantic clawing for foothold.
"Now, Miss Betty! Quick!" cried Brown. "Don't let him pass you."
She spread her skirts, but the shameless Clarence rushed headlong between the most delicately ornamental pair of ankles in Manhattan.
"Oh-h!" cried the girl in soft despair, and made a futile clutch; but she could not arrest the flight of Clarence, she merely upset him, turning him for an instant into a furry pinwheel, whirling through mid-air, landing in her yard, rebounding like a rubber ball, and disappearing, with one flying leap, into a narrow opening in the basement masonry.
"Where is he?" asked Brown, precariously balanced on the next fence.
"Do you know," she said, "this is becoming positively ghastly. He's bolted into our cellar."