“Just wait until I return,” purred Whitehead in Blackfoot’s ear.
With a mighty spring she reached the top of the mud wall, and then jumped down to the inside court. while she was resting in the shadow, trying to decide just how to go about her work, a slight rustling attracted her attention, and pop! one giant spring, one stretch-out of the claws, and she had caught a rat that had just come out of his hole for a drink and a midnight walk.
Now, whitehead was so hungry that she would have made short work of this tempting prey if the rat had not opened its mouth and, to her amazement, begun to talk in good cat dialect.
“Pray, good puss, not so fast with your sharp teeth! Kindly be careful with your claws! Don’t you know it is the custom now to put prisoners on their honor? I will promise not to run away.”
“Pooh! what honor has a rat?”
“Most of us haven’t much, I grant you, but my family was brought up under the roof of Confucius, and there we picked up so many crumbs of wisdom that we are exceptions to the rule. If you will spare me, I will obey you for life, in fact, will be your humble slave.” Then, with a quick jerk, freeing itself, “See, I am loose now, but honor holds me as if I were tied, and so I make no further attempt to get away.”
“Much good it would do you,” purred Whitehead, her fur crackling noisily, and her mouth watering for a taste of rat steak. “However, I am quite willing to put you to the test. First, answer a few polite questions and I will see if you’re a truthful fellow. what kind of food is your master eating now, that you should be so round and plump when I am thin and scrawny?”
“Oh, we have been in luck lately, I can tell you. Master and mistress feed on the fat of the land, and of course we hangers-on get the crumbs.”
“But this is a poor tumble-down house. How can they afford such eating?”
“That is a great secret, but as I am in honor bound to tell you, here goes. My mistress has just obtained in some manner or other, a fairy’s charm—“
“She stole it from our place,” hissed the cat, “I will claw her eyes out if I get the chance. Why, we’ve been fairly starving for want of that beetle. She stole it from us just after she had been an invited guest! What do you think of that for honor, Sir Rat? Were your mistress’s ancestors followers of the sage?”
“Oh, oh, oh! Why, that explains everything!” wailed the rat. “I have often wondered how they got the golden beetle, and yet of course I dared not ask any questions.”
“No, certainly not! But hark you, friend rat—you get that golden trinket back for me, and I will set you free at once of all obligations. Do you know where she hides it?”
“Yes, in a crevice where the wall is broken. I will bring it to you in a jiffy, but how shall we exist when our charm is gone? There will be a season of scanty food, I fear; beggars’ fare for all of us.”
“Live on the memory of your good deed,” purred the cat. “It is splendid, you know, to be an honest beggar. Now scoot! I trust you completely, since your people lived in the home of Confucius. I will wait here for your return. Ah!” laughed Whitehead to herself, “luck seems to be coming our way again!”
Five minutes later the rat appeared, bearing the trinket in its mouth. It passed the beetle over to the cat, and then with a whisk was off for ever. Its honor was safe, but it was afraid of whitehead. It had seen the gleam of desire in her green eyes, and the cat might have broken her word if she had not been so anxious to get back home where her mistress could command the wonderful kettle once more to bring forth food.
The two adventurers reached the river just as the sun was rising above the eastern hills.
“Be careful,” cautioned Blackfoot, as the cat leaped upon his back for her ride across the stream, “be careful not to forget the treasure. In short, remember that even though you are a female, it is necessary to keep your mouth closed until we reach the other side.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I need your advice,” replied Whitehead, picking up the beetle and leaping on to the dog’s back.
But alas! just as they were nearing the farther shore, the excited cat forgot her wisdom for a moment. A fish suddenly leaped out of the water directly under her nose. It was too great a temptation. Snap! went her jaws in a vain effort to land the scaly treasure, and the golden beetle sank to the bottom of the river.
“There!” said the dog angrily, “what did I tell you? Now all our trouble has been in vain—all on account of your stupidity.”
For a time there was a bitter dispute, and the companions called each other some very bad names—such as turtle and rabbit. Just as they were starting away from the river, disappointed and discouraged, a friendly frog who had by chance heard their conversation offered to fetch the treasure from the bottom of the stream. No sooner said than done, and after thanking this accommodating animal profusely, they turned homeward once more.
When they reached the cottage the door was shut, and, bark as he would, Blackfoot could not persuade his master to open it. There was the sound of loud wailing inside.
“Mistress is broken-hearted,” whispered the cat, “I will go to her and make her happy.”
So saying, she sprang lightly through a hole in the paper window, which, alas! was too small and too far from the ground for the faithful dog to enter.
A sad sight greeted the gaze of whitehead. The son was lying on the bed unconscious, almost dead for want of food, while his mother, in despair, was rocking backwards and forwards wringing her wrinkled hands and crying at the top of her voice for someone to come and save them.
“Here I am, mistress,” cried Whitehead, “and here is the treasure you are weeping for. I have rescued it and brought it back to you.”
The widow, wild with joy at sight of the beetle, seized the cat in her scrawny arms and hugged the pet tightly to her bosom.
“Breakfast, son, breakfast! wake up from your swoon! Fortune has come again. we are saved from starvation!”
Soon a steaming hot meal was ready, and you may well imagine how the old woman and her son, heaping praises upon Whitehead, filled the beast’s platter with good things, but never a word did they say of the faithful dog, who remained outside sniffing the fragrant odors and waiting in sad wonder, for all this time the artful cat had said nothing of Blackfoot’s part in the rescue of the golden beetle.
At last, when breakfast was over, slipping away from the others, whitehead jumped out through the hole in the window.
“Oh, my dear Blackfoot,” she began laughingly, “you should have been inside to see what a feast they gave me! Mistress was so delighted at my bringing back her treasure that she could not give me enough to eat, nor say enough kind things about me. Too bad, old fellow, that you are hungry. You’d better run out into the street and hunt up a bone.”
Maddened by the shameful treachery of his companion, the enraged dog sprang upon the cat and in a few seconds had shaken her to death.
“So dies the one who forgets a friend and who loses honor,” he cried sadly, as he stood over the body of his companion.
Rushing out into the street, he proclaimed the treachery of whitehead to the members of his tribe, at the same time advising that all self-respecting dogs should from that time onwards make war upon the feline race.
And that is why the descendants of old Blackfoot, whether in China or in the great countries of the west, have waged continual war upon the children and grandchildren of white-head, for a thousand generations of dogs have fought them and hated them with a great and lasting hatred.