Not far from the stack was a large liquid-manure well with a rotten, worm-eaten lid.
In places the lid dipped dangerously; it was a wretched bridge over a dangerous well—but it could bear a little kitten’s weight, surely?
Flies gathered in masses on the sun-baked lid, forming black, restless shadows on its tarred-felt covering. Big-kitten saw at once that they offered sport. And he soon found it just as nice to eat them as it was exciting to catch them.
He had not been at it long before the others followed suit. But no one could compete with him in accuracy; he displayed at once the master hand....
Sitting quietly on his tail, he brought down his paw with unerring accuracy, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, upon every fly that ventured within range.
White, wishing to emulate his performance, came and sat beside him; but before very long had to acknowledge that the new game was more difficult than it appeared.
She then tried crawling on her belly in pursuit of the restless creatures, and managed indeed to approach quite near to them; but each time she made her spring they flew away too soon.
Grey and Red were more fortunate. Each one took up a position on the lid, and with raised paw waited until the fly of its own accord came within striking distance. In this way they managed to catch a few flies, but far from all; Red was especially erratic, and missed two or three shots out of every four.
Black, on the other hand, after a little practise, proved himself an excellent shot; but, unhappily, he struck with such violence that the victim was smashed into a black spot, the edible fragments of which were buried in the tar.
Fly-catching did not interest Tiny. He hopped and jumped in happy ignorance on the yielding well-cover, playing prettily with his own tail. He also derived much pleasure from a rickety old hoisting-apparatus, climbing gaily up and down the disused pump-spear.