Montmorency went for that poor cat at the rate of twenty miles an hour; but the cat did not hurry up⁠—did not seem to have grasped the idea that its life was in danger. It trotted quietly on until its would-be assassin was within a yard of it, and then it turned round and sat down in the middle of the road, and looked at Montmorency with a gentle, inquiring expression, that said:

“Yes! You want me?”

Montmorency does not lack pluck; but there was something about the look of that cat that might have chilled the heart of the boldest dog. He stopped abruptly, and looked back at Tom.

Neither spoke; but the conversation that one could imagine was clearly as follows:⁠—

“Can I do anything for you?”

“No⁠—no, thanks.”

“Don’t you mind speaking, if you really want anything, you know.”