“A coon—a big coon—up in that cedar tree. Get on the other side, quick!”
I ran around, and, sure enough, up among the branches, trying to hide, but showing the end of a brindled and streaked tail, was the coon.
In a trice I let him have it, and he came crashing through the branches. Jack ran up and seized it, shaking. I saw yellow eyes, ears laid back, and the coon spitting and fighting for life. It was dying, but struck out, tearing Jack’s nose to threads. I ran up and planted the heel of my hunting boot on its neck, while Jack howled with his lacerated nose.
“That’s a funny looking coon,” I said, as I eyed the thing suspiciously. I heard Horatius laugh and saw him turn and make a break for the road. I looked up—old Bogair had run up, red-faced and breathless.
“By gar,” he yelled, as soon as he saw what I’d done, “vut fur you keeld ze house cat fur? Vut fur?”
It was true; but never had I seen a tomcat look more like a coon. On a distant hillside I could see my deserting friend rolling on the grass and shouting.
In vain I apologized. Old Bogair kept dancing around and shouting: “Vut fur you keel ze house cat fur? Vut fur?”
“What are you damaged?” I said at last, with disgust.
“Ah, en passant—dees one from T’ronto, I breeng. Hee’s registaire—fife tallar, an’ fife fur treespaire.”
I paid it like a man. Old Bogair smiled and bowed, with his hand on his stomach.