A classical heroine in dire distress invariably exclaims aloud:  “Will no one aid me?” Brown, whose automatic legs had compelled him to follow, instinctively awaited some similar appeal.

It came unexpectedly; the kicking basket escaped from her arms, the lid burst open, and an extraordinarily large, healthy and indignant cat flew out, tail as big as a duster, and fled east on Sixty-fourth Street.

The girl in the summer gown and white straw hat ran after the cat.  Brown’s legs ran, too.

There was, and is, between the house on the northeast corner of Sixty-fourth Street and Lexington Avenue and the next house on Sixty-fourth, an open space guarded by an iron railing; through this the cat darted, fur on end, and, with a flying leap, took to the back fences.

“Oh!” gasped the girl.

Then Brown’s legs did an extraordinary thing—­they began to scramble and kick and shin up the iron railing, hoisting Brown over; and Brown’s voice, pleasant, calm, reassuring, was busy, too:  “If you will look out for my suitcase I think I can recover your cat....  It will give me great pleasure to recover your cat.  I shall be very glad to have, the opportunity of recovering—­puff—­puff—­your—­puff—­puff—­c-cat!” And he dropped inside the iron railing and paused to recover his breath.

The girl came up to the railing and gazed anxiously through at the corner of the only back fence she could perceive.

“What a perfectly dreadful thing to happen!” she said in a voice not very steady.  “It is exceedingly nice of you to help me catch Clarence.  He is quite beside himself, poor lamb!  You see, he has never before been in the city.  I—­I shall be distressed beyond m-measure if he is lost.”

“He went over those fences,” said Brown, breathing faster.  “I think I’d better go after him.”

“Oh—­would you mind?  I’d be so very grateful.  It seems so much to ask of you.”

“I’ll do it,” said Brown, firmly.  “Every boy in New York has climbed back fences, and I’m only thirty.”

“It is most kind of you; but—­but I don’t know whether you could possibly get him to come to you.  Clarence is timid with strangers.”

Brown had already clambered on to the wooden fence.  He balanced himself there, astride.  Whitewash liberally decorated coat and trousers.

“I see him,” he said.

“W-what is he doing?”

“Squatting on a trellis three back yards away.”  And Brown lifted a blandishing voice:  “Here, Clarence—­Clarence—­Clarence!  Here, kitty—­ kitty—­kitty!  Good pussy!  Nice Clarence!”

“Does he come?” inquired the girl, peering wistfully through the railing.

“He does not,” said Brown.  “Perhaps you had better call.”

“Here, puss—­puss—­puss—­puss!” she began gently in that fascinating, crystalline voice which seemed to set tiny silvery chimes ringing in Brown’s ears:  “Here, Clarence, darling—­Betty’s own little kitty-cat!”