"Of course he wouldn't. But that is not the point.
It is not what your father would like; it is what that poor old lady would like."It was too much for Arnold. He gaped at Johnny.
"If you are going to be mean and stingy, we may as well stop before we begin," said Johnny.
Then Arnold Carruth recovered himself. "Old Mr. Webster Payne is awful poor," said he. "We might take some of your father's money and give it to him."Johnny snorted, fairly snorted. "If," said he, "you think my father keeps his money where we can get it, you are mistaken, Arnold Carruth. My father's money is all in papers that are not worth much now and that he has to keep in the bank till they are."Arnold smiled hopefully. "Guess that's the way my papa keeps HIS money.""It's the way most rich people are mean enough to," said Johnny, severely. "I don't care if it's your father or mine, it's mean. And that's why we've got to begin with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens.""Are you going to give old Mrs. Sam Little cats?"inquired Arnold.
Johnny sniffed. "Don't be silly," said he.
"Though I do think a nice cat with a few kittens might cheer her up a little, and we could steal enough milk, by getting up early and tagging after the milk-man, to feed them. But I wasn't thinking of giving her or old Mr. Payne cats and kittens. I wasn't thinking of folks; I was thinking of all those poor cats and kittens that Mr. Jim Simmons has and doesn't half feed, and that have to go hunting around folks' back doors in the rain, when cats hate water, too, and pick things up that must be bad for their stomachs, when they ought to have their milk regularly in nice, clean saucers. No, Arnold Carruth, what we have got to do is to steal Mr.
Jim Simmons's cats and get them in nice homes where they can earn their living catching mice and be well cared for.""Steal cats?" said Arnold.
"Yes, steal cats, in order to do right," said Johnny Trumbull, and his expression was heroic, even exalted.
It was then that a sweet treble, faltering yet exultant, rang in their ears.
"If," said the treble voice, "you are going to steal dear little kitty cats and get nice homes for them, I'm going to help."The voice belonged to Lily Jennings, who had stood on the other side of the Japanese cedars and heard every word.
Both boys started in righteous wrath, but Arnold Carruth was the angrier of the two. "Mean little cat yourself, listening," said he. His curls seemed to rise like a crest of rage.
Johnny, remembering some things, was not so outspoken. "You hadn't any right to listen, Lily Jennings," he said, with masculine severity.
"I didn't start to listen," said Lily. "I was look-ing for cones on these trees. Miss Parmalee wanted us to bring some object of nature into the class, and I wondered whether I could find a queer Japanese cone on one of these trees, and then I heard you boys talking, and I couldn't help listening. You spoke very loud, and I couldn't give up looking for that cone. I couldn't find any, and I heard all about the Simmonses' cats, and I know lots of other cats that haven't got good homes, and -- I am going to be in it.""You AIN'T," declared Arnold Carruth.
"We can't have girls in it," said Johnny the mind-ful, more politely.
"You've got to have me. You had better have me, Johnny Trumbull," she added with meaning.
Johnny flinched. It was a species of blackmail, but what could he do? Suppose Lily told how she had hidden him -- him, Johnny Trumbull, the cham-pion of the school -- in that empty baby-carriage!
He would have more to contend against than Arnold Carruth with socks and curls. He did not think Lily would tell. Somehow Lily, although a little, be-frilled girl, gave an impression of having a knowledge of a square deal almost as much as a boy would;but what boy could tell with a certainty what such an uncertain creature as a girl might or might not do? Moreover, Johnny had a weakness, a hidden, Spartanly hidden, weakness for Lily. He rather wished to have her act as partner in his great enter-prise. He therefore gruffly assented.
"All right," he said, "you can be in it. But just you look out. You'll see what happens if you tell.""She can't be in it; she's nothing but a girl,"said Arnold Carruth, fiercely.
Lily Jennings lifted her chin and surveyed him with queenly scorn. "And what are you?" said she.
"A little boy with curls and baby socks."Arnold colored with shame and fury, and subsided.
"Mind you don't tell," he said, taking Johnny's cue.
"I sha'n't tell," replied Lily, with majesty. "But you'll tell yourselves if you talk one side of trees without looking on the other."There was then only a few moments before Madame's musical Japanese gong which announced the close of intermission should sound, but three determined souls in conspiracy can accomplish much in a few moments. The first move was planned in detail before that gong sounded, and the two boys raced to the house, and Lily followed, carrying a toad-stool, which she had hurriedly caught up from the lawn for her object of nature to be taken into class.
It was a poisonous toadstool, and Lily was quite a heroine in the class. That fact doubtless gave her a more dauntless air when, after school, the two boys caught up with her walking gracefully down the road, flirting her skirts and now and then giving her head a toss, which made her fluff of hair fly into a golden foam under her daisy-trimmed straw hat.
"To-night," Johnny whispered, as he sped past.
"At half past nine, between your house and the Simmonses'," replied Lily, without even looking at him. She was a past-mistress of dissimulation.
Lily's mother had guests at dinner that night, and the guests remarked sometimes, within the little girl's hearing, what a darling she was.
