the suds-water, an' she blued her in the blue-water, an'—an' she wringed her an' she wringed her, an' she wanted to hang her up on the clothes-bars an'—an' the cothes-pins wouldn't stick!"
Aunt Beth looked at the cat and looked at the culprits, and pressed her lips more tightly together than even Cheery's.
"How did she wring her?" she asked, presently, her voice not very steady. Tiddle was always a remarkably thin cat, and she looked particularly thin just now.
"She—she wanted me to turn the wringer for her," said The Chum; "but I wouldn't, 'cause it looked so tight, an' she couldn't get only the tip of Tiddle's tail in, her own self; an' so she had to jus'—jus' wring her."
"But how did she do it?"
"Why, jus' this way," said The Chum, going through the motions of wringing a wet towel; "but she wouldn't hold still, an'—"
But Aunt Beth gave one look at Tidd,
