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"Come, now," said the little boy, "I am sure there is a story about that long, red tongue of yours." "To be sure there is," said a voice that came from just behind the boy's ear. He looked around and there was Old Klaws the House Cat. "What do you know about it?" asked the little boy. "Oh, I know all about it," answered the old cat.
I wonder what can be the matter." He went around to the other side of the brush pile and then he knew. There was Old Klaws the House Cat, his tail twitching and his round eyes shining hungrily. Just as the boy caught sight of the old cat, Mother Wa-poose sprang out of the thicket. She sprang straight at Old Klaws. The cat snarled and shrank to one side. But Mother Wa-poose was too quick for him.
"To be sure I will," said Old Klaws, delighted to be able to tease Old Boze safely. Of course there was another time coming when little Luke might not be at hand, but then the old cat trusted to speed and sharp claws to put himself up a tree and out of the reach of the old hound. "All right," said Old Boze, "if you're fond of the company of a sneaking, mouse-eating, old tabby. I'm not.
I'll take myself off. But my memory is good," he added, glancing at Old Klaws with a snarl that showed all his sharp, white teeth. "Well, now for the story," said the little boy, when Old Boze was out of sight around the corner. "Long, long ago," began Old Klaws, "when all the animal kindreds could talk the man-talk, the dogs were the greatest telltales in the world.
And since Old Klaws has told you about one dog, I'll tell you about another." "Once upon a time," went on the old hound, "there was an Indian hunter who had a dog that he loved very dearly. And the dog on his part loved his master more than his own life. "For many years, master and dog hunted together. When night came they ate of the same food, and shared the same bed.
"Then he comes on out of the store, with all these things stuck in his pockets and stacked up in his arms till he looks sort of like some new kind of a summertime Santy Klaws; and he sets down on a goods box at the edge of the pavement, with his feet in the gutter, and starts in eatin' all them things.
Then he hopped off into the thicket of berry bushes, where Old Klaws could not catch him again. Little Luke went on down the path, through the garden gate, and into the meadow beyond. All at once Bob Lincoln sprang up out of the grass right before his feet. Little Luke thought he would find Bob Lincoln's nest. So he got down upon his knees and began to look about in the grass very carefully.
"But ask Old Boze," he went on with a grin, "perhaps he'll tell you." Old Boze got up slowly and with dignity. "I am too tired to tell stories," said he, "but I'm not too tired to shake the foolishness out of a cat." "Here now," said the little boy, "no quarreling and fighting. I won't have it. And Klaws shall tell me that story about your long, red tongue, if he will."
Suppose, however, that those individual managers, who really are people taking a far more dignified view of their calling than that of putting it on the level of the dry-goods store, had been part of a syndicate of Klaws, would those critics have been readmitted?
To little Luke it seemed as if the leaves and grass and wheat all whispered, "Come away. Come and play." Just then a great bumblebee flew by and now the call was clear. "Come away, come away! Follow, follow, follow me!" The boy jumped up and ran down the path into the garden. There he met Old Klaws the House Cat, with a little brown baby rabbit in his mouth.
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