Betsy sighed, put up the whistle and took down the whip, and started in the direction of the tumult. Under the tree she stopped and waved the whip, with menace in her eye, which it was too dark for Van to see, even if he had been looking at her.
Van flitted to the far side of the tree, and barked as vigorously as if she were not there. Betsy started around after him; Van took the other half of the circle; Betsy cut across to close in on him; Van leaped to one side, dodged the whip-lash, and darted to the base of the tree, as if he would make that cat come down before the fun was spoiled.
In vain. Pussy understood that Betsy was on her side, and stood her ground, or, rather, she stayed climbed, looking down in silent amusement on the interesting spectacle below.
Round and round the tree went Van, with Betsy after him, the whip almost swinging to him, he always just ahead, or doubling so quickly that she could not catch him.
“Wow, wow, wow!”
“Come here, I say!”
“Wow, wow, wow!”
Van was having the last word every time, for Betsy was almost breathless. The poor patients must have had a hard time of it trying to sleep that evening.
“I will not give up my cat!” barked Van.
“Come here this instant!” called Betsy.