Mary-’Gusta, who had been startled nearly out of her senses by the shot and the shouting, stood perfectly still, too surprised and frightened even to run.  And then out of the bushes before her darted a scared tortoise-shell cat, frantically rushing in her direction.  The cat was David.

“He’s hidin’ in them bushes,” shouted the voice again.  “Stay where you be, Pop.  I’ll scare him out and then you give it to him.”

Mary-’Gusta stood still no longer.  The sight of her idolized pet running for his life was enough to make her forget fright and everything else.  She too ran, but not toward home.

“David!” she screamed.  “Oh, David!  Come here!  David!”

David may have recognized the voice, but if so the recognition made no difference.  The cat kept straight on.  The girl ran across its path.  It dodged and darted into a beachplum thicket, a cul-de-sac of tangled branches and thick grass.  Before the animal could extricate itself Mary-’Gusta had seized it in her arms.  It struggled and fought for freedom but the child 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.”