Before they turned, a harrowing procession issued from the carriage-house doors beneath them. Herman came first, hurriedly completing a temporary security in Verman's trousers. Verman followed, after a little reluctance that departed coincidentally with some inspiriting words from the rear. He crossed the alley hastily, and his Mammy stalked behind, using constant eloquence and a frequent lath. They went into the small house across the way and closed the door.
Then Sam turned to Penrod.
"Penrod," he said thoughtfully, "was it on account of fortygraphing in the jungle you wanted to keep that cat?"
"No; that was a mighty fine-blooded cat. We'd of made some money."
Sam jeered.
"You mean when we'd sell tickets to look at it in its cage?"
Penrod shook his head, and if Gipsy could have overheard and understood his reply, that atrabilious spirit, almost broken by the events of the day, might have considered this last blow the most overwhelming of all.
"No," said Penrod; "when she had kittens."