'Geordie, Geordie, Rolf,' I cried, 'come quickly! There is something dreadfully the matter with Rough.'
So indeed it seemed, for the noise grew louder, and mingled with it now were a child's calls and shrieks.
'Roughie, Roughie,' I distinguished in Esmé's voice; 'darling Roughie, come to me. Don't be so frightened, darling. I didn't mean it—oh, I didn't mean it!'
And this was what I saw.
Esmé, hair streaming, eyes streaming, scarlet with terror, rushing over the ground in front and at the side of the Hut, lost to sight for a moment among the trees, then out again, after something—a small, wild animal, it seemed—that was tearing before her, evidently trying to escape from her, or from—yes, what was that strange thing rushing after it? Another still smaller wild beast of some kind, or what? No, it was nothing alive; it was a metal thing of some kind, rattling, clanking, jingling, and—oh, horrors!—tied to my poor pet's little body.
I saw it all at once—affection quickens one's eyes, they say—I took it all in before there was time for any explanation, though Esmé screamed to me as she flew on: 'Oh, Ida, Ida, I didn't mean it! Stop him, stop him!'
Naughty, naughty Esmé!
He had already rushed past me—within a few yards, that is to say—without seeing me, whom he generally caught sight of before you could think it possible. Blinded by terror—yes, and deafened too—he did not know I had come; he could not hear his own 'missus's' voice.
And he was dreadful to look at: his tongue was hanging out; his whole little head seemed spattered with foam; he was rushing like a mad thing, even though, by the gasping sound he made, you could tell he was exhausted, and had scarcely any breath left.