mehow it made them look as if they were not fox-hounds, but
their own natural breeds--only with sore throats.

Oswald slipped the pistol and a few cartridges into his pocket. He knew,
of course, that foxes are not shot; but as he said--

'Who knows whether we may not meet a bear or a crocodile.'

We set off gaily. Across the orchard and through two cornfields, and
along the hedge of another field, and so we got into the wood, through
a gap we had happened to make a day or two before, playing 'follow my
leader'.

The wood was very quiet and green; the dogs were happy and most busy.
Once Pincher started a rabbit. We said, 'View Halloo!' and immediately
started in pursuit; but the rabbit went and hid, so that even Pincher
could not find him, and we went on. But we saw no foxes. So at last we
made Dicky be a fox, and chased him down the green rides. A wide walk
in a wood is called a ride, even if people never do anything but walk in
it.

We had only three hounds--Lady, Pincher and Martha--so we joined the
glad throng and were being hounds as hard as we could, when we suddenly
came barking round a corner in full chase and stopped short, for we
saw that our fox had stayed his hasty flight. The fox was stooping over
something reddish that lay beside the path, and he cried--

'I say, look here!' in tones that thrilled us throughout.

Our fox--whom we must now call Dicky, so as not to muddle the
narration--pointed to the reddy thing that the dogs were sniffing at.

'It's a real live fox,' he said. And so it was. At least it was
real--only it was quite dead--and when Oswald lifted it up its head
was bleeding. It had evidently been shot through the brain and expired
instantly. Oswald explained this to the girls when they began to cry at
the sight of the poor beast; I do not say he did not feel a bit sorry
himself.

The fox was cold, but its fur was so pretty, and its tail and its little
feet. Dicky strung the dogs on the leash; they were so much interested
we thought it was better.

'It does seem horrid to think it'll never see again out of its poor
little eyes,' Dora said, blowing her nose.

'And never run about through the wood again, lend me your hanky, Dora'
said Alice.

'And never be hunted or get into a hen-roost or a trap or anything
exciting, poor little thing,' said Dicky.

The girls began to pick green chestnut leaves to cover up the poor fox's
fatal wound, and Noel began to walk up and down making faces,