THE SIAMESE CAT
Chinaman, thin and feverishly spry, clutched once in desperation just as Scarlett swept the cat under his left arm. With his right he struck out heavily. The man toppled into the road, but rebounding like a ball, cleared the ditch, skimmed a hedge, and was lost. The Mohammedan lashed the ponies. They had galloped a hundred yards before Scarlett discovered that Chao Phya was scratching venomously.
"By George, that chap ran lame!" he thought. "Laura's burglar: they keep a good watch. Now my troubles begin—but that one was harmless enough!"
Under the lights of his verandah, however, he decided otherwise. A ragged triangle of leather, wads of curled hair, flapped at his shoulder. An upward stab had disembowelled the back cushion. His fist had been none too ready.
"So Christian Friend was not bluffing,"
[ 104 ]
