Marjorie gave a sigh of relief. She didn’t so much mind the execution taking place if the poor Dodo was not to be killed. To her great surprise, however, on looking at that interesting bird, she discovered that he was weeping copiously, and wiping with an elaborate lace handkerchief, which had evidently been concealed about his person, the tears which trickled slowly down his great beak.
“What’s the matter, poor goosey, goosey, gander?” said Fidge, sympathetically.
“Don’t!” snapped the Dodo, crossly. “I’m not a goose.”
“Well, what is the matter, anyhow?” said Dick. “They are not going to chop your head off it appears; so you ought to be glad, and not snivel like that.”
“I d—don’t want to—to be—e m—made a guy of,” sobbed the Dodo.
“What do you mean?” asked the Executioner.
“Why, you said you would have to make an effigy of me; and he” (pointing to Dick) “said it was a kind of Guy Fawkes, didn’t you?” he added appealing to Dick.
“Well, never mind,” said the Archæopteryx, sympathetically; “you have the consolation that they couldn’t make you a bigger guy than you are.”
Strangely enough, the Dodo seemed to derive a considerable amount of comfort from this idea, and, wiping away the few remaining tears, he began to take an active interest in the manufacture of the effigy, which the others set about constructing without further delay.
“Is it like me?” he asked, conceitedly, as they bound some cloths to a piece of stick, in such a way that they bore some slight resemblance to a bird.