“Yes,” said Philip, “and he had got Dick with him.”
“Ah!” said the farmer, “I don’t know Dick. Who’s he?”
“Why, our rough dog,” said Philip; “the ratter.”
“Oh, ah, ha!” said the farmer; “so he had Dick with him, had he?”
“Yes,” said Philip, mournfully, and with another great sob creeping up his throat.
“Theer, theer,” said Mr Benson, “doan’t do that, bairn. He’s safe enough if he’s got that dog wi’ him; he’d be sewer to find the way out o’ the wood.”
This seemed to act as a kind of comfort to Philip, who resumed his meal, but only to find out a new trouble directly after. “Where’s my snake?” he exclaimed, jumping up, and looking at the end of the rough stick he had brought in with him. But nobody knew, so nobody replied to his question; the snake was gone, for it had not been even remembered all through the time of their bewilderment, and now that it was brought to mind there was not even a trace of the whipcord.
“Now, my dears,” said Mrs Benson, seeing that the lads had finished their meal,—“now, my dears, I have had clean sheets put on the best bed, so, if I was you, I should go and have a good rest.”
But Mrs Benson’s motherly ideas were put to the rout by the sound of wheels and directly after a horse was pulled up at the gate. Some one rapped at the door, and, upon its being opened, in rushed Dick, closely followed by Mr Inglis, Harry, and Mr Benson’s lad, Tom, who had not gone far upon the road before he met the above party in search of the lost ones. They had been making inquiries all down the road at every cottage they passed, and it was during one of these stoppages that Tom recognised Mr Inglis’s voice, and brought him on to the farm.
The first act of Dick on entering the room was to leap upon Philip and Fred, and bark as loudly as he could—scampering round the place, and at last misbehaving so much that he had to be turned out, to stay outside the door, howling, till his master was ready to start again.