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.
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