It was hard for Rudolf, but he dared not anger the pirate cat any further.  “Don’t hurt him, please, Captain Mittens,” he begged.  “He’s only a—­” Then he stopped, for the False Hare was making a terrible face at him behind the handkerchief with which he was pretending to wipe his eyes.

“Tie his paws!” commanded Mittens, without so much as a look at Rudolf.  “There—­that’s a nice bit of string hanging out of his pocket—­take that.  Now—­chuck him in the boat!”

In a trice the black and white spotted cats, who seemed to be common sailors, had tied the False Hare’s paws behind him with his own string, lowered him into the mice’s little boat from which they had already removed the oars, gave it a push, and sent him cruelly adrift!

“Oh, Rudolf,” cried tender-hearted Ann, “what will become of him?  Poor old Hare!”

“Po-o-o-r old Hare,” came back a dismal echo from the little boat already some distance away.  Then they saw that the False Hare had freed his paws—­that string must have been made of paper like his clothes and his umbrella—­and was standing up in his boat waving a gay farewell to all aboard the Merry Mouser.

“Good-by, kidlets!” he called in mocking tones.  “Hope you have a good time with the tabbies!” And then to Mittens, “Good-by, old Whiskers!”

At this insult to their Chief all the pirate cats began firing their revolvers, but their aim must have been very poor indeed, as none of their shots came anywhere near the Hare’s boat.  Indeed, a great many of the cats had forgotten to load their weapons, though they kept snapping away at their triggers as if that did not matter in the slightest.  The False Hare merely bowed, kissed his paw to Captain Mittens, and then began using his silk hat as a paddle so skilfully that in a few moments he was far beyond their range.

Growler edged up to Prowler.  “I say, old chap,” he chuckled, “I s’pose that’s what they mean by a hare-breadth escape?”

Prowler grinned.  “It’s one on the Chief, anyway,” said he joyfully.  “Not a breath of wind, ye know, not so much as a cats-paw—­no chance of a chase.”

“What’s that?” Captain Mittens had crept up behind the two mates and bawled in Prowler’s ear.  “What’s that?  No wind?  Why not, I’d like to know?  What d’ye mean by running out o’ wind?  Head her for Catnip Island this instant, or I’ll have ye skinned!”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do my best, sir,” answered Prowler meekly.  “But you see, sir, the breeze havin’ died, sir, it’ll be a tough job to get the Merry Mouser—­”

“Prowler!” The chief, who had been standing close beside the unlucky mate while he spoke, now came closer yet and fixed his terrible eye on Prowler’s shining whiskers.  “How long,” he asked, speaking very slowly and distinctly, “is—­it—­since—­you—­have—­tasted mouse?”

Prowler trembled all over.  “A—­a—­week, sir,” he mumbled, “that is, I couldn’t swear to the date, sir, but ’twas at my aunt’s and she never has us to tea on a Monday, for that’s wash-day, nor on a Tuesday, for that’s missionary, so it must ‘a’ been—­”