"Oh, grandsir! oh, mother!"
he wailed--"oh, I've pushed Seventoes into the old well and drowned him,
and his ghost's sitting on the shed roof! Oh, mother!"
Grandfather Wellman was confined to his chair with rheumatism, but he
arose. "Pushed Seventoes into the well," he repeated, while Benjamin's
mother turned as pale as her son.
"I have--I have," sobbed Benjamin. "I didn't know I was going to, but I
have. And he's in the well, and he's sitting on the shed roof too. Oh!"
"What do you mean?" his mother gasped. "Stop acting so, and tell me what
you've done."
"I pushed Seventoes into the old well. I didn't know I was going to, but
I did; and he's dead in there, and he's on the shed roof. Oh, mother!"
"You 'ain't pushed that cat into the well?" groaned Grandfather Wellman.
"If you have--" He was trying to limp across the kitchen with his cane.
He, too, was pale, and trembling from head to foot. "Hannah," he said to
Benjamin's mother, "you come right along quick, and see if we can't get
him out. I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for that cat."
Benjamin's mother started. Benjamin, sobbing and trembling, was clinging
to her. Just then _Seventoes walked in through the east door_, his
splendid ringed tail waving a little uneasily, but not a hair of him was
hurt. A frightened cat can run faster than a guilty little boy, and
Seventoes had found his unusual number of claws of good service in
climbing a well and retarding his progress towards the bottom.
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