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shouted, and took off after him.
    Rule Number One when hunting mice, Mom told us time and time again, is simple: don’t forget all the
other
rules ofcat life. You know, rules like don’t play in the street, and don’t sleep on warm car engines (Simon learned that one the hard way—his nickname became Stubby), or, in this particular case, stay away from two boys armed with bows and arrows.
    As I ran across the barn after the mouse, I completely forgot Rule Number One, and I found myself on a path that would take me between the boys and their target.
    “Look out!” shouted Sylvester, covering his eyes.
    Danny and Davey, to their credit, tried to hold their fire, but by the time they saw me it was too late. The first arrow struck the concrete a foot in front of me, throwing up a shower of sparks before skidding harmlessly into the straw bale.
    The sight of that arrow hitting the ground just inches away scared me so much that I bounded straight up in the air—like I was on a pogo stick, according to Simon, who watched the whole thing. My jump, unfortunately, was perfectly timed, and the second arrow intercepted me midflight, neatly piercing the skin at the back of my neck and pinning me to the paper target. A perfect bull’s-eye.
    For a few seconds, as I hung from the arrow, there was complete silence in the barn. Danny and Davey stood frozen in place, too frightened to move, or even to speak. As for me, I tried to convince myself that I really wasn’t dead. It wasn’t until the holes in my neck started to hurt that I believed it.
    “Is it dead?” Davey asked. “I didn’t mean to do it!”
    “Debbie is going to kill you,” said Danny. “Swell shot, though. Bull’s-eye.”
    “Shut up. We’ve got to get rid of the cat. And you have to promise you’ll never tell.”
    “Okay, but you owe me.”
    They crept toward the target, where I dangled most uncomfortably from their arrow, a feline shish kebab.
    “Mrrrrraaaaa,” I said.
    “It’s alive!” cried Davey. “Look, it’s just through the skin.”
    “What should we do?” Danny asked.
    “Get me down, you simpletons!” I thought.
    Lucky for me, the door at the side of the barn opened and Debbie stepped inside. She saw me and screamed.
    “Samantha! You poor baby! What did you two do to her?” She put her hands under me, taking the weight off the skin of my neck, and I felt a hundred times better almost immediately.
    “It was an accident! I swear!” said Davey, who started crying.
    “Well, let’s get her down first, then we’ll worry about that. I’ll hold Samantha, and Danny, you pull the arrow.”
    “Wh-what? Whoa, Nelly!” I thought. “Isn’t this a job for a professional? Shouldn’t we wait for a veterinarian? Or Mr.
    Dilly, at least?”
    Danny nodded at her as I squirmed.
    “Go!” she said.
    Danny pulled quickly, and in one exquisitely painful movement, the arrow and I were separated.
    “Mrrrr​rrooo​oooww​wwww,” I moaned in Debbie’s arms.
    “That’s two, Samantha,” she said with a sad shake of her head.

By the time the Shoreliner zoomed past Schenectady, twenty-five minutes later, all of Clarence’s known “hiding places” had been checked, and there was still no sign of Ellie. I was with Clarence and Sam in the dormitory car when one of the porters, a tall, handsome young man of eighteen or nineteen, returned from the baggage compartment.
    “What is it, James?” Clarence asked.
    “You’d better see this, Mr. Nockwood, sir,” he said. “I was checking everyplace, like you said, and, well, see for yourself.”
    Sam and I followed them through the mail room and into the baggage compartment, separated by a heavy clothdivider that functioned as a door and that closed by means of metal snaps.
    “Right over here, sir,” said James, leading Clarence to the far corner of the car. Behind a number of trunks and suitcases were dozens of marble floor tiles—six- and twelve-inch samples in every color imaginable—dumped into