“He’s yours, Betsy.”
“Mine? No, he isn’t. He can’t be. What’s his name?”
“Vanart VI.,” said Bob. “Call him Van, for short. Go to Betsy, Van.”
Betsy sat down on the lower step of the stair, and Van ambled up, wriggling, almost to her, when suddenly his eye fell on a member of the group, who, being merely a casual visitor, had not been taken into account at all. It was a huge yellow cat, three times as big as Van, who, in a hand to hand, or claw to claw fight could have made ribbons of his young lordship.
Instantly Van’s head went down, his tail to “attention,” and with stealthy steps he went slowly toward old Tommy. A quickening of his heart told him that his father and his father’s father’s had always chased cats. There was a long line of sporting dogs behind him, and here was game worthy of the blood.
Tommy’s yellow fur stiffened into bristles; his tail grew big and threatening; he backed against the dining-room door with a low growl and with all claws set. Van gave one short “Woof!” and started for him. Tommy, who had met many dogs, large and small, and vanquished not a few, was not sure that this courageous morsel could be a real dog at all, and in that moment of hesitation the day was lost. “R-r-r-r-r!” growled Van, in an answering challenge, and Tommy turned tail and darted through the door into the dining-room.
That was enough. “The game is started, chase it!” whispered the blood of his ancestors to his pumping heart. Through the swinging door into the kitchen went a yellow streak; after it pelted a barking thing of brown and white; out through the screen door and down the steps,—it was Van’s first experience with steps, and the cat was gaining. He rolled down, picked himself up, and was off again in the direction of his flying yellow prey.
Around the corner of the house it disappeared, but Van was hard on the scent. Soon the cat was in sight again and in a fair way to safety. A friendly apple tree was just ahead; Tommy made one dash up the trunk and was safe in a high crotch, whence he could look down on his tiny foe and be ashamed of himself. Van, not being a climber, stopped beneath the tree, yelping like mad at the lost prize, while Mrs. Johns, Bob and Betsy looked on, too helpless with laughter to inform him, as they should have done, that the sporting instinct should be held second to kingly courtesy.
But Van had treed his first cat on the first run, and the field of glory, without a question, belonged to him.
When quiet was restored, Bob turned to Betsy.