And now, slowly and gradually, the tail-lights grew smaller and smaller, and so did the noise, till with one last WHIZ the train got itself out of the tunnel, and silence settled again on its damp walls and dripping roof.
“OH!” said the children, all together in a whisper.
Peter was lighting the candle end with a hand that trembled.
“Come on,” he said; but he had to clear his throat before he could speak in his natural voice.
“Oh,” said Phyllis, “if the red-jerseyed one was in the way of the train!”
“We've got to go and see,” said Peter.
“Couldn't we go and send someone from the station?” said Phyllis.
“Would you rather wait here for us?” asked Bobbie, severely, and of course that settled the question.
So the three went on into the deeper darkness of the tunnel. Peter led, holding his candle end high to light the way. The grease ran down his fingers, and some of it right up his sleeve. He found a long streak from wrist to elbow when he went to bed that night.
It was not more than a hundred and fifty yards from the spot where they had stood while the train went by that Peter stood still, shouted “Hullo,” and then went on much quicker than before. When the others caught him up, he stopped. And he stopped within a yard of what they had come into the tunnel to look for. Phyllis saw a gleam of red, and shut her eyes tight. There, by the curved, pebbly down line, was the red-jerseyed hound. His back was against the wall, his arms hung limply by his sides, and his eyes were shut.