“Well,” said the dog, gravely, sitting down on a large flower-pot nearby, “I think, as we have been wanting to fight this out for some time,—­indeed, I may say, almost since time began,—­we had better allow every one to have a tooth and a claw in it.  Then, perhaps, this matter will be settled forever.”

“Quite my opinion,” responded Puss.  “But first the ladies, infants, and weak and wounded, must be removed from the field.”

“All right!” said the dog.  “But look here.  You first stop that, will you?” and he pointed to a fine gray cat that was rubbing herself against a large, comfortable-looking Newfoundland.

“Immediately,” said Puss, and he bawled in a loud voice:  “There is to be no friendly intercourse between soldiers of the two armies.  It is in the highest degree detrimental to military discipline.”

And the dog shouted:  “Stop being pleasant to each other, right off.  I can’t have it.  You always have fought, and you’ve got to fight now.”

The big Newfoundland at once made a snap at the gray cat, and she put up her back, spit and clawed at him, and ran off as fast as she could.

Then Puss waved his handkerchief, as a flag of truce, and said in a loud voice, “There will be a cessation of hostilities for five minutes, until the non-combatants are removed.”

The able-bodied cats arranged themselves in rows, and the dogs did the same.  The two generals stepped grandly in front of the lines, and the battle seemed about to begin, when a young and frisky cat, at the far end of the front rank, took advantage of a dog opposite who had turned his head, and jumped upon his back, clawing him in so cruel a way that he howled dreadfully.

At this, Mother Hubbard’s dog advanced angrily, and taking the cat by the nape of the neck, threw her among the cat army, saying:  “The trumpet hasn’t sounded, and we haven’t begun yet.  That was a real sneaky trick, just like a cat.”

“Sir!” cried Puss in Boots, loftily, “Do you mean to insinuate that I am a sneak?”

“I didn’t say so precisely,” returned the dog.  “But if you want me to, I will.”  Then he added, in a taunting tone, “You are a sneak!”

Puss trembled with rage at this insult, and drew the little sword he wore at his side.

“Prove it!” he cried, brandishing his blade.

“Didn’t you sneak yourself and your master into a castle and fine clothes that you had no right to?”

“Didn’t you pretend to be dead once and frighten your poor mistress nearly out of her wits?  Take that, sir!” and he made a furious cut at him.

But the dog dodged the weapon, and, with a cutlass suddenly pulled from behind him, made a fierce blow at the cat.  Puss leaped nimbly away, with a scream of triumph and defiance.  Then they set to with all their skill and hate and cunning.

Presently Puss fell, apparently dead, and Sir John Hubbard, the victor, was leaning on his cutlass, looking sorry, when suddenly Puss jumped up, grasped his sword and made a savage lunge at the dog.  “That was only one of my lives!” he screamed.  “I have eight left.  Cats have nine lives, but you—­you miserable dog—­have only one.”