We had only three hounds—Lady, Pincher and Martha—so we joined the glad throng and were being hounds as hard as we could, when we suddenly came barking round a corner in full chase and stopped short, for we saw that our fox had stayed his hasty flight. The fox was stooping over something reddish that lay beside the path, and he cried—
‘I say, look here!’ in tones that thrilled us throughout.
Our fox—whom we must now call Dicky, so as not to muddle the narration—pointed to the reddy thing that the dogs were sniffing at.
‘It’s a real live fox,’ he said. And so it was. At least it was real—only it was quite dead—and when Oswald lifted it up its head was bleeding. It had evidently been shot through the brain and expired instantly. Oswald explained this to the girls when they began to cry at the sight of the poor beast; I do not say he did not feel a bit sorry himself.
The fox was cold, but its fur was so pretty, and its tail and its little feet. Dicky strung the dogs on the leash; they were so much interested we thought it was better.
‘It does seem horrid to think it’ll never see again out of its poor little eyes,’ Dora said, blowing her nose.
‘And never run about through the wood again, lend me your hanky, Dora’ said Alice.
‘And never be hunted or get into a hen-roost or a trap or anything exciting, poor little thing,’ said Dicky.
The girls began to pick green chestnut leaves to cover up the poor fox’s fatal wound, and Noel began to walk up and down making faces, the way he always does when he’s making poetry. He cannot make one without the other. It works both ways, which is a comfort.
‘What are we going to do now?’ H. O. said; ‘the huntsman ought to cut off its tail, I’m quite certain. Only, I’ve broken the big blade of my knife, and the other never was any good.’