HUNTING THE FOX
When this had been said we filled in the grave and covered the top of it with dry leaves and sticks to make it look like the rest of the wood. People might think it was treasure, and dig it up, if they thought there was anything buried there, and we wished the poor fox to sleep sound and not to be disturbed.
The interring was over. We folded up Dora's blood-stained pink cotton petticoat, and turned to leave the sad spot.
We had not gone a dozen yards down the lane when we heard footsteps and a whistle behind us, and a scrabbling and whining, and a gentleman with two fox-terriers had called a halt just by the place where we had laid low the "little red rover."
The gentleman stood in the lane, but the dogs were digging—we could see their tails wagging and see the dust fly. And we saw where. We ran back.
"Oh, please, do stop your dogs digging there!" Alice said.
The gentleman said "Why?"
"Because we've just had a funeral, and that's the grave."
The gentleman whistled, but the fox-terriers were not trained like Pincher, who was brought up by Oswald. The gentleman took a stride through the hedge gap.
"What have you been burying—a pet dicky bird, eh?" said the gentleman, kindly. He had riding breeches and white whiskers.
We did not answer, because now, for the first
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