Besides, he said if we set it on the log and fastened it, when the wildcat got caught he'd fall off into the creek and get drownded and then we wouldn't have to kill him. Billy says that's the way trappers catch mushrats, so they can't eat their feet off, when they get caught, and get away.
Well, sir, we set the trap and tied Spot up so he wouldn't get into it.
In the night we heard the awfulest racket ever was and the biggest splashing going on in the water. It even woke Billy up, and that's going some, as Uncle Tom says.
It was 'most daylight and I sat up in bed, and there in the water was something making a dreadful fuss. Billy he looks at it a minute and says: "Why, it's Spot. Who let him loose?" Then we all jumped up, and sure enough there was poor old Spot in the trap by one front-foot. The chain to the trap was just long enough so he didn't drown, but was hanging in the water by one leg.
Billy, it being his dog, crawled out on the log, unfastened the chain and tried to pull Spot up. Some way he lost his balance and fell into the creek right on top of the dog. Billy was real mad 'cause me and Jack laughed so hard we couldn't help him a bit, Spot was pretty mad too, for he grabbed Billy's leg in his teeth and tore a big piece out of them—out of Billy's pajamas I mean.
Then Billy let go of the chain, and Spot climbed out of the water on to the bank and tried to run off with the trap. Billy waded ashore too, and we just laid down on the ground and hollered like real wild Indians. Billy he said it wasn't any laughing matter and to come and help him get Spot out of the trap.
Say, Dad, did you ever try to open a big steel trap—especially one with a spotted dog in it? Spot wouldn't let us come near him. Billy coaxed and coaxed, but, no siree, he wouldn't do anything but just snap at us like a sure enough wild cat. Meantime Spot he howls something dreadful.
Then Jack he remembers how once in a storybook a man caught a mad dog, so he runs to the bed and gets a blanket, and while Billy and me talks nice to Spot from in front, Jack he sneaks up behind and throws it over him. Then Jack grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around the dog's head so he couldn't bite, and we both stood on the trap spring and managed to get it open wide enough so Billy got his foot out (Spot's foot I mean, not Billy's).
Has he come home yet? 'Cause he's gone from here. My goodness, but camping out's sure fun.
Your loving son,