“’They calm down a mite at this, and one or two says they thought he was right from the first; and some others says:  “Well, it wouldn’t make no difference what he was, rabbit or no rabbit, if he’d just come down and meet the bunch of us fair and square; but the dirty coward is afraid to fight us, except one at a time.”  The leader is very firm, though.  He tells ’em that if this here object ain’t a rabbit they got no right to molest him, and if he is a rabbit he’s gone crazy, and wouldn’t be good to eat, anyway; so they better go find one that acts sensible.  And he gets ’em away, all talking about it excitedly.

“’Well, sir, you wouldn’t believe how tickled Kate was all that day.  It was like he’d found a new interest in life.  And next time these beetles come up they pull off another grand scrap.  Kate laid for ’em just this side of the creek and let ’ern chase him back to his tree.  He skun up three others that day, still pursuin’ his cowardly tactics of fighting ‘em one at a time, and retirin’ to his perch when three or four would come at once.  Also, when they give him up again and started off he come down and chased ’em to the creek bank, like you seen the other day, telling ’em to be sure and not forget the number, because he ain’t had so much fun since he met up with a woodchuck.  The next time they showed up he’d got so contemptuous of ’em that he’d leap down and engage one that had got separated from the pack.  He had two of ’em darn’ near out before they was rescued by their friends.

“’Then, a few days later, along comes the pack again—­only this time they’re being herded by the lad with the ginger-coloured whiskers.  He gets off his horse and says how do I do, and what lovely weather, and how bracing the air is; and I says what pretty beetles he has; and he says it’s ripping sport; and I says, yes; Kate has ripped up a number of ’em, but I hope he don’t blame me none, because my Kitty has to defend himself.  Say, this guy brightened up and like to took me off my feet!  He grabs both my hands and shakes ’em warmly for a long time and says do I think my cat can put the whole bunch on the blink?—­or words to that effect.  And I says it’s the surest thing in the world; but why?  And he says, then the sooner the better, because it’s a barbarous sport and every last beetle ought to be thoroughly killed; and when they are, in case his mother don’t find out the crooked work, mebbe he’ll be let to raise orchids or do something useful in the world, instead of frittering his life away in the vain pursuit of pleasure.

“’Oh, he was the chatty lad, all right!  And I felt kind of sorry for him; so I says Kate would dearly love to wipe these beetles out one by one; and he says:  ‘Capital, by Jove!’ And I call Kitty and we pull off another nice little scrap on the fallen tree, though it’s hard to make the beetles take much interest in it now, except in the way of self-defense.  Even at that, they’re kept plenty occupied.