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“Who?” inquired Arnold Carruth, in awed tones.

“Well, there is poor old Mrs. Sam Little. She’s awful poor. Folks help her, I know, but she can’t be real pleased being helped. She’d rather have the money herself. I have been wondering if we couldn’t get some of your father’s money away and give it to her, for one.”

“Get away papa’s money!”

“You don’t mean to tell me you are as stingy as that, Arnold Carruth?”

“I guess papa wouldn’t like it.”

“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 milkman, 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 looking 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.