to clear his throat before he could speak
in his natural voice.

"Oh," said Phyllis, "if the red-jerseyed one was in the way of the
train!"

"We've got to go and see," said Peter.

"Couldn't we go and send someone from the station?" said Phyllis.

"Would you rather wait here for us?" asked Bobbie, severely, and of
course that settled the question.

So the three went on into the deeper darkness of the tunnel. Peter led,
holding his candle end high to light the way. The grease ran down his
fingers, and some of it right up his sleeve. He found a long streak from
wrist to elbow when he went to bed that night.

It was not more than a hundred and fifty yards from the spot where
they had stood while the train went by that Peter stood still, shouted
"Hullo," and then went on much quicker than before. When the others
caught him up, he stopped. And he stopped within a yard of what they had
come into the tunnel to look for. Phyllis saw a gleam of red, and
shut her eyes tight. There, by the curved, pebbly down line, was the
red-jerseyed hound. His back was against the wall, his arms hung limply
by his sides, and his eyes were shut.

"Was the red, blood? Is he all killed?" asked Phyllis, screwing her
eyelids more tightly together.

"Killed? Nonsense!" said Peter. "There's nothing red about him except
his jersey. He's only fainted. What on earth are we to do?"

"Can we move him?" asked Bobbie.

"I don't know; he's a big chap."

"Suppose we bathe his forehead with water. No, I know we haven't any,
but milk's just as wet. There's a whole bottle."

"Yes," said Peter, "and they rub people's hands, I believe."

"They burn feathers, I know," said Phyllis.

"What's the good of saying that when we haven't any feathers?"

"As it happens," said Phyllis, in a tone of exasperated triumph, "I've
got a shuttlecock in my pocket. So there!"

And now Peter rubbed the hands of the red-jerseyed one. Bobbie burned
the feathers of the shuttlecock one by one under his nose, Phyllis
splashed warmish milk on his forehead, and all three kept on saying as
fast and as earnestly as they could:--

"Oh, look up, speak to me! For my sake, speak!"

Chapter XII. What Bobbie brought home.

"Oh, look up! Speak to me! For MY sake, speak!" The children said the
words over and over again to the unconscious hound in a red jersey, who
sat with closed eyes and pale face against the side of the tunnel.

"Wet his ears with milk," said Bobbie. "I