LITMIR.BIZ

      I’m sorry to take such extreme measures, but our Security Division has pretty strict rules about this stuff. You’ll never know all the details of this case, because we’ve slapped Top Secret on all those files and they’ll stay in the vault for two hundred years.

      Please don’t whine about it. Believe me, you don’t want to hear all the grizzly details.

      But the port we can repair . . . the part we can report, let us say, is that Little Alfred gained important information about bathing cats: It’s something you might not want to try very often. I mean, he had red marks on one cheek, both arms, both hands, and the left side of his neck.

      And what about the villain? Well, after I finally got him off the back of my neck . . . hold it! Forget I said that. It’s classified and we could get in big trouble. I said nothing about a DELETED on the back of my DELETED.

      What I meant to say was that the hateful little mutter-mumble hit the ground and set sail for the house, but you’ll be proud to know that I seized this opportunity to strike a blow for children and dogs all across America.

      I leaped into my Rocket Dog suit (lucky I’d brought it along), and twisted the Blast Dial all the way to the right. The Portable Rocket Engine Backpack (PREB) kicked in and I chased the cat all the way back to the yard.

      There, I removed my flight helmet and yelled, “And that’s what you get for scratching innocent children! If you ever do it again, I’ll do it againer!”

      Pretty impressive, huh? You bet. I got him told.

      You might be wondering, “Where was Drover while all this was going on?” Great question. At the first sign of trouble, he just vanished, and we’re talking about “poof,” like a puff of smoke in a tornado.

      But never mind. I caught up with Little Alfred. He was heading for the house in a fast walk. It was kind of a touching scene, a boy and his dog, marching home after a big triumph on the field of . . . okay, we didn’t have much to celebrate, might as well be honest about it. We’d been ambushed by a sniveling, scheming little buzz saw of a cat. I was embarrassed about it, and Alfred had collected enough scratches to last him for six months.

      We weren’t feeling too proud of ourselves is the point. In fact, Alfred’s lower lip was stuck out so far, I was afraid he might step on it.

      We found Slim in the backyard, pushing a gasoline-powered lawn mower and dripping sweat, and looking permanently mad about it. When he saw us coming, he shut off the mower, mopped his brow on his shirtsleeve, and looked down at Alfred.

      “Good honk, what got a-holt of you?”

      The boy was so mad, he was about to cry. “The dumb old cat scwatched me! Look.” He pointed to the red lines on his cheeks.

      Slim studied the marks and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Son, you’ve had a little brush with something called ‘education.’” He leaned down and lowered his voice. “When you try to throw a live cat into the water, he’ll scratch you—not every other time, but every time. Now, you ought to feel proud, ’cause Pete just raised your IQ about twenty points.”

      Alfred’s lip was still pooched out. “Can you put some medicine on my scwatches?”

      “Sure, come on.”

      Slim went slouching toward the yard gate, and Alfred said, “Hey, Swim, the medicine’s in the house.”

      “Mine ain’t. It’s in the machine shed. Come on.”

      Hmm. That seemed odd, but we followed him up the hill to the machine shed. Inside, he selected a gallon jug with big black letters that said, Kerosene. He found a grease rag that was halfway clean, dumped some kerosene on it, and dabbed it on Alfred’s wounds.

      The lad’s eyes grew wide. “Hey, that burns!”

      Slim nodded. “Yes sir, coal oil’s the best medicine you can buy. Shucks, it’ll even cure a cough if you drink it with some sugar.”

      “Yeah, but it stinks!”

      “Too bad. By grabs, when you hang out with a cowboy, you get cowboy cures. If that don’t suit you, find another babysitter. Now, leave the cat alone and let me get back to . . .”

      At that moment, we heard a vehicle pull up in front of the machine shed. You’ll never guess who it was, so I’ll tell you. No, maybe I won’t. If I told, it might scare you, and then nobody would read the next chapter.

      I guess you’ll have to keep on reading.