But he was ill-advised. This time it was
the right arm of the semaphore that dipped--and Duke's honest
nose was but too conscious of what happened in consequence.
A lump of dirt struck the refuse-can with violence, and Gipsy
beheld the advance of overwhelming forces. They rushed upon him
from two directions, cutting off the steps of the porch.
Undaunted, the formidable cat raked Duke's nose again, somewhat
more lingeringly, and prepared to depart with his fishbone. He
had little fear for himself, because he was inclined to think
that, unhampered, he could whip anything on earth; still, things
seemed to be growing rather warm and he saw nothing to prevent
his leaving.
And though he could laugh in the face of so unequal an antagonist
as Duke, Gipsy felt that he was never at his best or able to do
himself full justice unless he could perform that feline
operation inaccurately known as "spitting". To his notion, this
was an absolute essential to combat; but, as all cats of the
slightest pretensions to technique perfectly understand, it can
neither be well done nor produce the best effects unless the
mouth be opened to its utmost capacity so as to expose the
beginnings of the alimentary canal, down which--at least that is
the intention of the threat--the opposing party will soon be
passing.
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