, but Pincher did not like it any more than they did, and as
we three walked up and down we heard him whining. And Alice kept saying,
'I _am_ so cold! Isn't he coming yet?' And H. O. wanted to come out
and jump about to warm himself. But we told him he must learn to be
a Spartan boy, and that he ought to be very thankful he hadn't got a
beastly fox eating his inside all the time. H. O. is our little brother,
and we are not going to let it be our fault if he grows up a milksop.
Besides, it was not really cold. It was his knees--he wears socks. So
they stayed where they were. And at last, when even the other three who
were walking about were beginning to feel rather chilly, we saw Lord
Tottenham's big black cloak coming along, flapping in the wind like a
great bird. So we said to Alice--

'Hist! he approaches. You'll know when to set Pincher on by hearing Lord
Tottenham talking to himself--he always does while he is taking off his
collar.'

Then we three walked slowly away whistling to show we were not thinking
of anything. Our lips were rather cold, but we managed to do it.

Lord Tottenham came striding along, talking to himself. People call him
the mad Protectionist. I don't know what it means--but I don't think
people ought to call a Lord such names.

As he passed us he said, 'Ruin of the country, sir! Fatal error, fatal
error!' And then we looked back and saw he was getting quite near where
Pincher was, and Alice and H. O. We walked on--so that he shouldn't
think we were looking--and in a minute we heard Pincher's bark, and then
nothing for a bit; and then we looked round, and sure enough good old
Pincher had got Lord Tottenham by the trouser leg and was holding on
like billy-ho, so we started to run.

Lord Tottenham had got his collar half off--it was sticking out sideways
under his ear--and he was shouting, 'Help, help, murder!' exactly as if
some one had explained to him beforehand what he was to do. Pincher was
growling and snarling and holding on. When we got to him I stopped and
said--

'Dicky, we must rescue this good old man.'

Lord Tottenham roared in his fury, 'Good old man be--' something or
othered. 'Call the dog off.'

So Oswald said, 'It is a dangerous task--but who would hesitate to do an
act of true bravery?'

And all the while Pincher was worrying and snarling, and Lord Tottenham
shouting to us to get the dog away. He was dancing about in the road
with Pincher hanging on like grim death; an