"It is the note of the dingue!" I whispered, "and that explains its name, handed down from remote ages along with the names of the behemoth and the coney. It was because of its bell-like cry that it was named! Darling!" I cried, forgetting our short acquaintance, "we have made a discovery that the whole world will ring with!"
Hand in hand we tiptoed through the forest to our trap. There was something in it that took fright at our approach and rushed panic-stricken round and round the interior of the trap, uttering its alarm-note, which sounded like the jangling of a whole string of bells.
I seized the strangely beautiful creature; it neither attempted to bite nor scratch, but crouched in my arms, trembling and eying me.
Delighted with the lovely, tame animal, we bore it tenderly back to the camp and placed it on my blanket. Hand in hand we stood before it, awed by the sight of this beast, so long believed to be extinct.
"It is too good to be true," sighed Dorothy, clasping her white hands under her chin and gazing at the dingue in rapture.
"Yes," said I, solemnly, "you and I, my child, are face to face with the fabled dingue—Dingus solitarius! Let us continue to gaze at it, reverently, prayerfully, humbly—"
Dorothy yawned—probably with excitement.
We were still mutely adoring the dingue when Professor Smawl burst into the tent at a hand-gallop, bawling hoarsely for her kodak and note-book.
Dorothy seized her triumphantly by the arm and pointed at the dingue, which appeared to be frightened to death.
"What!" cried Professor Smawl, scornfully; "that a dingue? Rubbish!"