“I shall make it my business to protect that cat from your cruelty.”

Peter, who was a natural coward, took courage from having a companion to back him up, and retorted:  “You’d better clear out of here, or I may fire at you.”

“Do it if you dare!” said Gilbert, quietly.

Peter concluded that it would be wiser not to carry out his threat, but was resolved to keep to his original purpose.  He raised his arm again, and took aim; but Gilbert rushed in, and striking his arm forcibly, compelled him to drop it.

“What do you mean by that, you loafer?” demanded Peter, his eyes blazing with anger.

“To stop your fun, if that’s what you call it.”

“I’ve a good mind to give you a thrashing.”

Gilbert put himself in a position of defense.

“Sail in, if you want to!” he responded.

“Help me, Simon!” said Peter.  “You grab his legs, and I’ll upset him.”

Simon, who, though younger, was braver than Peter, without hesitation followed directions.  He threw himself on the ground and grasped Gilbert by the legs, while Peter, doubling up his fists, made a rush at his enemy.  But Gilbert, swiftly eluding Simon, struck out with his right arm, and Peter, unprepared for so forcible a defense, tumbled over on his back, and Simon ran to his assistance.

Gilbert put himself on guard, expecting a second attack; but Peter apparently thought it wiser to fight with his tongue.

“You rascal!” he shrieked, almost foaming at the mouth; “I’ll have you arrested.”

“What for?” asked Gilbert, coolly.

“For flying at me like a—­a tiger, and trying to kill me.”

Gilbert laughed at this curious version of things.

“I thought it was you who flew at me,” he said.

“What business had you to interfere with me?”

“I’ll do it again unless you give up firing stones at the cat.”

“I’ll do it as long as I like.”

“She’s gone!” said Simon.

The boys looked up into the tree, and could see nothing of puss.  She had taken the opportunity, when her assailant was otherwise occupied, to make good her escape.

“I’m glad of it!” said Gilbert.  “Good-morning, boys!  When we meet again, I hope you will be more creditably employed.”

“You don’t get off so easy, you loafer,” said Peter, who saw the village constable approaching.  “Here, Mr. Rogers, I want you to arrest this boy.”

Constable Rogers, who was a stout, broad-shouldered man, nearly six feet in height, turned from one to the other, and asked:  “What has he done?”

“He knocked me over.  I want him arrested for assault and battery.”

“And what did you do?”

“I?  I didn’t do anything.”

“That is rather strange.  Young man, what is your name?”

“Gilbert Vance.”

“You don’t live in this town?”

“No; I live in Warren.”