He's being held.

Come!" The allurement of his mistress's voice produced no stirring effect on the temperamental Simon Cameron.

Beyond leaving the crotch and edging mincingly downward, a yard or so, the Persian refused to obey the crooning summons.

Plastered flat against the tree trunk, some nine feet above the ground, he miaued dolefully.
"Hold Bobby's collar," suggested Brice, "and I think I can get the prematurely grizzled catling to earth." The girl came over to where man and dog stood, and took Bobby Burns by the collar.

Brice crossed to the tree and looked upward at the yowling Simon Cameron.
"Hello, you good little cat!" he hailed, cooingly.