held it tight.

"David!" she panted. "Oh, don't, David! Please be still! They shan't
hurt you; I won't let 'em. Please!"

Through the bushes above the wall appeared the freckled face of
Con--christened Cornelius--Bacheldor. Con was Jimmie's elder brother.

"He must have got through," he shouted. "He--no, there he is. She's got
him, Pop. Make her put him down."

Mr. Abner Bacheldor crashed through to his son's side. He was carrying a
gun.

"You put that cat down," screamed Con, threateningly.

Mary-'Gusta said nothing. Her heart was beating wildly but she held the
struggling David fast.

"It's that kid over to Shad Gould's," declared Con. "Make her give you a
shot, Pop."

Mr. Abner Bacheldor took command of the situation.

"Here, you!" he ordered. "Fetch that critter here. I want him."

Still Mary-'Gusta did not answer. She was pale and her small knees
shook, but she neither spoke nor moved from where she stood. And her
grip upon the cat tightened.

"Fetch that cat here," repeated Abner. "We're goin' to shoot him; he's
been stealin' our chickens."

At this accusation and the awful threat accompanying it, Mary-'Gusta
forgot her terror of the Bacheldors, of the gun, forgot everything
except her pet and its danger.

"I shan't!" she cried frantically. "I shan't! He ain't! He's my cat and
he don't steal chickens."

"Yes, he does, too," roared Con. "Pop and I see him doin' it."

"You didn't! I don't believe it! When did you see him?"

"Yesterday afternoon. We see him, didn't we, Pop?"

"You bet your life we did," growled Abner. "And he was on my land again
just now; comin' to steal more, I cal'late. Fetch him here."

"I--I shan't! He shan't be shot, even if he did steal 'em. And I know
he didn't. If you shoot him I'll--I'll tell Uncle Zoeth and--and Cap'n
Gould. And I won't let you have him anyhow. I won't," with savage
defiance. "If you shoot him you'll have to shoot me, too."

Con climbed over the wall. "You just wait, Pop," he said. "I'll take him
away from her."

But his father hesitated. There were certain reasons why he thought it
best not to be too arbitrary.

"Hold on, Con," he said. "Look here, sis, I'm sorry to have to kill your
cat, but I've got to. He steals chickens and them kind of cats has to be
shot. I see him myself yesterday afternoon. I told Isaiah Chase myself
that . . . why, you was there and heard me! You heard me tell how I was
lookin' out of the winder at quartet past four an