She could not quench the fury of the angered cats. "That that's my Alice-doll's next-to-best dress, Bungle!" she managed to say. "You're tearing it! you're tearing it!" Just then the door opened. Uncle Rufus came tottering in with the feather duster. The old man's rheumatism still troubled him and he was not steady on his feet. Tootsie saw a way of escape.
You went and sat right down in the middle of my Alice-doll's old cradle, and on her best knit coverlet, and went to sleep and you're moulting! I'll never get the hairs off of that quilt." "Moulting, eh!" chuckled Mr. Stetson. "Don't you mean shedding?" "We ell, maybe," confessed Dot. "But the hens' feathers are coming out and they're moulting I heard Ruth say so. So why not cats?