Chapter XVII
THE LETTER FROM THE SKY
“You see,” explained Poor Cecco, “if Murrum happens to walk by here, and if he only happens to put his paw on that piece of wood, then this will pull that, and that this—and then the whole stick will fall down right on his back!”
“A lot of good that will do!” said Jensina.
They were in the garden, by the onion bed, looking at the trap which Poor Cecco had invented, while Harlequin stood by, well pleased with his share in the work.
“Anyway it will give him a good fright,” Poor Cecco retorted.
“Why did you put it here?’ Jensina objected. “Murrum doesn’t eat onions, does he?”
“Because it’s the only place where the earth is soft enough. You don’t seem to understand, Jensina,” he went on indignantly, “that it took ages digging that hole out!”
“I’ve known a lot of cats,” Jensina remarked, “but I’ve only known one that was an idiot, and he got drowned in the buttermilk pail!”
“I wonder where Bulka is?” said Poor Cecco after a moment, wishing to change the conversation.
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