Part 13 (2/2)

”Should think a whole orchestra of cats was shut up in here,” Will observed, trying another direction. ”Arch, get out your knife, and see if you can rip up this can a little. Jove, but it's snug! We can dispense with a little of that music, my fine fellow. There--you--are,”

as Archie, with a final careful twist, drew off the can. Once out of its tin bondage, the little creature seemed too frightened to move, and suddenly curled down under the protecting table-cover, to restore its ruffled fur, with many a piteous mew.

The girls gathered around to pet and soothe it.

”Keep away, girls. Don't touch it yet with your hands. It's so frightened still it might scratch you. Here, Cricket, take it in the table-cloth, there. Better give it something to eat. It's a stray cat, and probably half starved, and that's why it tried to eat tomato cans, like a goat.”

Cricket bore off her charge to the kitchen, where she fed and soothed it with such good effect that, when she came back, half an hour later, the little black cat cuddled down on her arm, purring like a teakettle in spite of its wounded neck.

”Isn't it a dear?” she said, admiringly. ”I think grandma will let me keep it. We haven't any cat in the house since Wallops died, and I love them.”

Grandma was entirely willing that the little waif should be added to the family, and so it was legally adopted by Cricket, with all sorts of solemn ceremonies. Then came the naming it, always a serious difficulty.

”I want a very appropriate name,” meditated Cricket, aloud.

”The Cat in the Iron Mask,” suggested Will.

”Too long. Think of calling all that out when I want him in a hurry.”

”Cantankerous,” said Archie.

”No, I want a regular name.”

”Can-on Farrar, then. That's a regular name, and it's a very appropriate one.”

”I don't like that, either. I want just a plain, common, every-day sort of name, like George Was.h.i.+ngton.”

”Very well, take George Was.h.i.+ngton, then. That is very appropriate indeed. He couldn't tell a lie, and probably your cat can't either.”

”Do you think he's dignified enough to be called George Was.h.i.+ngton!”

asked Cricket, doubtfully, watching the Nameless jump around after his tail. She had had him for two days now, and he had quite recovered from his tinny imprisonment. He proved to be a most well-bred and entertaining little cat, for he came when he was called and went when he was bid, in orthodox fas.h.i.+on, and made himself entirely at home.

”Probably George was frisky in his youth,” said Will. ”Especially when he was courting Martha.”

”Then I'll do this: I'll call him George Was.h.i.+ngton as far as his tail, and I'll call that Martha, because he runs after it. Come here, George W., you've run after Martha long enough now. Come here, and be christened.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: FEEDING GEORGE WAs.h.i.+NGTON--”CRICKET BORE OFF HER CHARGE TO THE KITCHEN”]

And so George Was.h.i.+ngton he remained to the end of the chapter. He soon learned his name, and would come flying at the first sound of it. He proved to be a pet that required considerable attention. He was of an especially sociable nature, and, if left alone in any room, he would howl in mournful and prolonged meows, that speedily brought some one to the rescue. He tagged the girls like a little dog, and would stand on the sh.o.r.e crying like a child if they went off in the boat and would not take him. He slept in Cricket's bed at night, and if by any chance he was shut out when the family went to bed, and the house was locked up, he would make night hideous with lamentations, to an extent that would soon bring some one down to let him in.

One day the familiar meow sounded, and Cricket, who was curled up in the hammock, reading, instantly sprang up.

”There's George W.,” for so his name was generally abbreviated, ”and he's shut up somewhere, and I let him out myself only a few minutes ago.

I believe he gets into places through the keyholes, and I don't see why he doesn't get out through 'em.”

But George was not to be found in any of his usual haunts, and his meows ceasing, Cricket went back to her book. Presently, a prolonged cry was heard again, and again Cricket started in quest of him. She looked and called everywhere, but George W. was nowhere to be found, though his meow, with a quality peculiar to himself, seemed to come from no particular place, but to pervade the air generally.

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