Then Dora said:
"Let's go home and write a beautiful letter and all sign it."
Oswald looked at the others. Writing is all very well, but it's such a beastly long time to wait for anything to happen afterwards.
The intelligent Alice divined his thoughts, and the Dentist divined hers—he is not clever enough yet to divine Oswald's—and the two said together:
"Why not go and see her?"
"She did say she would like to see us again some day," Dora replied. So after we had argued a little about it we went.
And before we had gone a hundred yards down the dusty road Martha began to make us wish with all our hearts we had not let her come. She began to limp, just as a pilgrim, who I will not name, did when he had the split pease in his silly, palmering shoes.
So we called a halt and looked at her feet. One of them was quite swollen and red. Bulldogs almost always have something the matter with their feet, and it always comes on when least required. They are not the right breed for emergencies.
There was nothing for it but to take it in turns to carry her. She is very stout, and you have no idea how heavy she is. A half-hearted, unadventurous person (I name no names, but Oswald, Alice, Noël, H. O., Dicky, Daisy, and Denny will understand me) said, why not go straight home and come another day without Martha? But the rest agreed with Oswald when he said it was only a mile, and perhaps we might get a lift home with the poor invalid. Martha was very grateful to us for our kindness. She put her fat white arms round the person's neck who happened to be carrying her. She is very affectionate, but by holding her very close to you you can keep her from kissing your face all the time. As Alice said, "Bulldogs do give you such large, wet, pink kisses."
A mile is a good way when you have to take your turn at carrying Martha.