So, although he went home in a very subdued way, with his head drooping and his bark silent, he was in no way minded to continue in obedience. The bad way was so much more to his liking, too. Do not men, and good men, go out with guns, and shoot and kill innocent birds and squirrels, for the mere sport of it? It is a gentleman’s sport—to kill. Pity that it should be so! So we cannot too severely blame a little dog for following the instincts that grown men indulge in and are never whipped for.
Everything seemed to be against Vanny-Boy’s being a good dog. Mary the cook, and Treesa, could not be bribed into punishing the winsome, fascinating sinner. There was no one to do it but Betsy, and she hated to worse than anybody. But she loved the little Prince too well to let him go on lightly in his wicked ways.
One evening, when it was just beginning to be cat-time—every one knows that this is at twilight, when the cats, who love darkness, shake themselves out of their day naps, and prowl about after mice and rats—Van escaped through the kitchen door, and was off on a marauding expedition.
It was a lovely night, with a rising moon, and a soft, still air that carried scents and sounds wonderfully; a night simply perfect for cats, ay, and for dogs, too, thought Vanny-Boy, as he scampered over the wide lawn toward the Hospital buildings. The birds in the nests were giving their last sleepy chirps and tucking their heads under their wings. Soon everything was still, save for a chorus of frogs that chirped and boomed the whole night through in the distant ponds.
Van sniffed the air.—Rat! He took the trail, but it ended at a barred cellar window.
Sniff! Sniff! Surely that was Cat! Van doubled back, and followed Kitty’s scent,—through the big gate, across the road and through the fence into the clover meadow beyond. Here it was very still. Overhead the policemen fireflies were lighting home the laggard bees from their day’s toil, and lending their lantern rays to the operatic performances of a cloud of young mosquitoes.
Under the daisies and clover-heads stole the black cat. There were rustlings and scurryings among the field mice, I can tell you. A meadow lark flew off and left her four white eggs until the enemy had safely passed. But, oh, Pussy, even as you were hunting your prey, there was one following of whom it were best to be always wary!
Sh! Sh! There went a little field-mouse right under Pussy’s nose. She jumped, she had him—almost! Just then a brown and white streak whizzed through the grasses, gave one leap over the clover-tops, and—no—he, too, missed. She was too quick for him; but, without intending to, he had saved the life of the field-mouse, who scuttled off in one direction as fast as Pussy in another.
There followed a sharp race. Pussy was big and strong, and had she had time to turn and show her claws, she might have fended for herself. But Van was almost upon her—there was nothing for it but flight. Through the clover, first the black, then the white flew past; under the fence, across the road, through the gate, over the Hospital lawn, back to where they had started. There, right ahead, stood a friendly maple tree; one spring—and Pussy was safe! Vanny-Boy stood barking at the foot, as he had barked at the yellow cat a year ago.
Pussy stopped on the first limb, turned around, breathed a few times, to see if she still could, and looked down at Van, a thing to be scorned and flouted. He could not climb trees—not he! Ha, ha! I am sure the cat must have laughed, just like that.