“The dogs of Sunday would be no ordinary dogs,” said Gogol, and shuddered.
Syme had jumped down on the other side, but he still stood listening impatiently.
“Well, listen to that,” he said, “is that a dog—anybody’s dog?”
There broke upon their ear a hoarse screaming as of things protesting and clamouring in sudden pain; and then, far off like an echo, what sounded like a long nasal trumpet.
“Well, his house ought to be hell!” said the Secretary; “and if it is hell, I’m going in!” and he sprang over the tall railings almost with one swing.
The others followed. They broke through a tangle of plants and shrubs, and came out on an open path. Nothing was in sight, but Dr. Bull suddenly struck his hands together.
“Why, you asses,” he cried, “it’s the Zoo!”
As they were looking round wildly for any trace of their wild quarry, a keeper in uniform came running along the path with a man in plain clothes.
“Has it come this way?” gasped the keeper.
“Has what?” asked Syme.