“I ca-can’t avoid it,” he stammered, and wanted to kick himself for what he had blurted out.

Another pause—­longer this time.  And then: 

“I am going to enter my house and climb up on the fence....  Would you mind waiting a moment?”

“I will wait here,” said Beekman Brown, “until I see you.”  He added to himself:  “I’m going mad rapidly and I know it and don’t care.... What—­ a—­girl!”

While he waited, legs swinging, astride the back fence, he examined his injuries—­thoughtfully touched the triangular tear in his trousers, inspected minor sartorial and corporeal lacerations, set his hat firmly upon his head, and gazed across the monotony of the back-yard fences at Clarence.  The cat eyed him disrespectfully, paws tucked under, tail curled up against his well-fed flank—­disillusioned, disgusted, unapproachable.

Presently, through the palings of a back yard on Sixty-fifth Street, Brown saw a small boy, evidently the progeny of some caretaker, regarding him intently.

“Say, mister,” he began as soon as noticed, “you have tore your pants on a nail.”

“Thanks,” said Brown, coldly; “will you be good enough to mind your business?”

“I thought I’d tell you,” said the small boy, delightedly aware that the information displeased Brown.  “They’re tore awful, too.  That’s what you get for playin’ onto back fences.  Y’orter be ashamed.”

Brown feigned unconsciousness and folded his arms with dignity; but the next moment he straightened up, quivering.

“You young devil!” he said; “if you pull that slingshot again I’ll come over there and destroy you!”

At the same moment above the fence line down the block a white straw hat appeared; then a youthful face becomingly flushed; then two dainty, gloved hands grasping the top of the fence.

“I am here,” she called across to him.

The small boy, who had climbed to the top of his fence, immediately joined the conversation: 

“Your girl’s a winner, mister,” he observed, critically.

“Are you going to keep quiet?” demanded Brown, starting across the fence.

“Sure,” said the small boy, carelessly.

And, settling down on his lofty perch of observation, he began singing: 

"Lum’ me an’ the woild is mi-on.”

The girl’s cheeks became pinker; she looked at the small boy appealingly.

“Little boy,” she said, “if you’ll run away somewhere I’ll give you ten cents.”

“No,” said the terror, “I want to see him an’ you catch that cat.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” suggested Brown, inspired.  “I’ll give you a dollar if you’ll help us catch the cat.”

“You’re on!” said the boy, briskly.  “What’ll I do?  Touch her up with this bean-shooter?”

“No; put that thing into your pocket!” exclaimed Brown, sharply.  “Now climb across to Sixty-fourth Street and stand by that iron railing so that the cat can’t bolt out into the street, and,” he added, wrapping a dollar bill around a rusty nail and tossing it across the fence, “here’s what’s coming to you.”