“Yeggie always barks first, and thinks afterward,” said the little dog, and he licked my ear so humbly, that I had to forgive him.
Czarina came among us like a silent shadow, and poked her long muzzle at me. “What’s the matter?” she said.
“Good London, he’s off,” I replied inelegantly; “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t turn King Harry from his trail.”
“Now we’ve got to trail him,” said Czarina, “for he’s out of sight,” and she put her muzzle to the ground.
“I think I’ll stay with the hens,” said Sir Walter, sitting down outside his kennel. “Betsy’s in there, and she’s fussing, for she can’t see well at night. Bark, if you want me.”
“What’s up?” asked Weary Winnie sleepily. She was always the last to arrive, and now she stood blinking drowsily at us, and wrinkling her nose more than ever.
“We’re man-trailing,” I said; “come on, youngster,” and off I started.
By this time, every dog had caught the scent of Fifeson, and they were a mad-looking lot. If they had followed the natural impulses of their plain dog hearts, I think they would have liked to tear that man to pieces that quiet summer night, but they were trained animals, and each one knew if they dared hurt so much as a hair of his wicked head, they would be severely called to account by Mr. Bonstone. So merely growling unutterable things, they all pressed on.