h the polo
mallets.

This we proceeded to do. After an hour's pleasant exercise on the flat
in the "Enclosure," we jogged contentedly back into the corral.

Around the corner of the barn sailed a distracted and utterly stampeded
hen. After her, yapping eagerly, came five dachshunds.

Pause and consider the various elements of outrage the situation
presented. (A) Dachshunds are, as before quoted, a bunch of useless,
bandylegged, snip-nosed, waggle-eared----, anyway, and represent an
amiable good-natured weakness on the part of Mrs. Kitty. (B) Dachshunds
in general are _not_ supposed to run wild all over the place, but to
remain in their perfectly good, sufficiently large, entirely comfortable
corral, Pete and Pup excepted. (C) Chickens are valuable. (D) Confound
'em! This sort of a performance will be a bad example for Young Ben.
First thing we'll know, he'll be chasing chickens, too!

The Captain dropped from his pony and joined the procession. The hen
could run just a trifle faster than the dachshunds; and the dachshunds
just a trifle faster than the Captain. I always claimed they circled the
barn three times, in the order named. The Captain insists with dignity
that I exaggerate three hundred per cent. At any rate, the hen finally
blundered, the dachshunds fell upon her--and the Captain swung his polo
mallet.

Five typical "sickening thuds" were heard; five dachshunds literally
sailed through the air to fall in quivering heaps. The Captain, his
anger cooled, came back, shaking his head.

"I wouldn't have killed those dogs for anything in the world!" he
muttered half to me, half to himself as we took the path to the house.
"I don't know what Mrs. Kitty will say to this! I certainly am sorry
about it!" and so on, at length.

We turned the corner of the hedge. There in a row on the top step of the
verandah sat five dachshunds, their mouths open in a happy smile, six
inches of pink tongue hanging, their eyes half closed in good-humoured
appreciation.

The Captain approached softly and looked them over with great care. He
felt of their ribs. He stared up at me incredulously.

"Is this the same outfit?" he whispered.

"It is," said I, "I know the blaze-face brute."

"But--but----"

"They played 'possum on you, Captain."

The Captain arose and his wrath exploded.

"You miserable hounds!" he roared.

With a wise premonition they decamped.

"I'm going to clean out the whole bandylegged tribe!" threatened t