s valiant but unscientific
thrusts, while Dorry looked on in great satisfaction, sure that she now
could "catch the idea" perfectly.

No armed chieftain at the head of his clan ever appeared more
desperately valiant than Fandy on this occasion.

Fortunately cats can tell no tales.

A very active youngster of eight, with a long foil in his strong little
hand, striking right and left regardless of consequences, and leaping
from the ground when making a thrust at his opponent's heart, or
savagely attempting to rival the hero of Chevy Chase who struck off his
enemy's legs, is no mean foe. Donald was a capital fencer; and, well
skilled in the tricks of the art, he had a parry for every known thrust.
But Fandy's thrusts were unknown. Nothing more original or unexpected
could be conceived; and every time Dorry cried "foul!" he redoubled his
strokes, taking the word as a sort of applause. For a while, Donald
laughed so much that he scarcely could defend himself; but, whenever he
found that he was growing short of breath, he would be in earnest just
long enough to astonish his belligerent foe. At the moment when that
lively young duellist flattered himself that he was doing wonders, and
pressing the enemy hard, Donald would stop laughing for a second, make a
single sudden pass toward Fandy, with a quick turn of his wrist, and,
presto! the eight-year-old's foil, much to his amazement, would leave
his hand as if by magic, and go spinning across the floor. But Fandy,
utterly unconscious that this unaccountable accident was a stroke of art
on Donald's part, was not in the least disconcerted by it.

[Illustration: Fandy's first fencing-match.]

"Hello!" he would shout, nothing daunted, "_I've dropped my soword!_
Wait a minute. Don't hit me yet!" And then, picking up his weapon, he
would renew the attack with all his little might.

At last, Donald, wearying of the sport, relieved himself of his mask and
consulted his watch, a massive but trusty silver affair, which had been
worn by his father when a boy.

Was Fandy tired? Not a bit. Practice had fired his soul. "Come on,
Dorothy!" he cried. "Pull to-o! I mean, fall to-o!"

But Dorry thanked him and declined; whereat a thought struck the young
champion. His expression grew fierce and resolute as, seizing the foil
with a sterner grip, he turned to Donald.

"There's a cat up stairs. I guess it's a wild-cat. D' YOU WANT IT
KILLED?"

"Oh, you little monster!" cried Dorry, rushi