LITMIR.BIZ

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with your heels against the bath’s tin sides. But Peter had shouted for all he was worth, and Bobbie heard him. She dragged Phyllis along to the manhole. Phyllis, of course, stumbled over the wires and grazed both her legs. But they dragged her in, and all three stood in the dark, damp, arched recess while the train roared louder and louder. It seemed as if it would deafen them. And, in the distance, they could see its eyes of fire growing bigger and brighter every instant.

      “It is a dragon—I always knew it was—it takes its own shape in here, in the dark,” shouted Phyllis. But nobody heard her. You see the train was shouting, too, and its voice was bigger than hers.

      And now, with a rush and a roar and a rattle and a long dazzling flash of lighted carriage windows, a smell of smoke, and blast of hot air, the train hurtled by, clanging and jangling and echoing in the vaulted roof of the tunnel. Phyllis and Bobbie clung to each other. Even Peter caught hold of Bobbie’s arm, “in case she should be frightened,” as he explained afterwards.

      And now, slowly and gradually, the tail-lights grew smaller and smaller, and so did the noise, till with one last whiz the train got itself out of the tunnel, and silence settled again on its damp walls and dripping roof.

      “Oh!” said the children, all together in a whisper.

      Peter was lighting the candle end with a hand that trembled.

      “Come on,” he said; but he had 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 know they do it to people that faint—with eau-de-Cologne. But I expect milk’s just as good.”

      So they wetted his ears, and some of the milk ran down his neck under the red jersey. It was very dark in the tunnel. The candle end Peter had carried, and which now burned on a flat stone, gave hardly any light at all.

      “Oh, do look up,” said Phyllis. “For my sake! I believe he’s dead.”

      “For my sake,” repeated Bobbie. “No, he isn’t.”

      “For any sake,” said Peter; “come out of it.” And he shook the sufferer by the arm.

      And then the boy in the red jersey sighed, and opened his eyes, and shut them again and said in a very small voice, “Chuck it.”

      “Oh, he’s not dead,” said Phyllis. “I knew he wasn’t,” and she began to cry.

      “What’s up? I’m all right,” said the boy.

      “Drink this,” said Peter, firmly, thrusting the nose of the milk bottle into the boy’s mouth. The boy struggled, and some of the milk was upset before he could get his mouth free to say:—

      “What is it?”

      “It’s milk,” said Peter. “Fear not, you are in the hands of friends. Phil, you stop bleating this minute.”

      “Do drink it,” said Bobbie, gently; “it’ll do you good.”

      So he drank. And the three stood by without speaking to him.

      “Let him be a minute,” Peter whispered; “he’ll be all right as soon as the milk begins to run like fire through his veins.”

      He was.

      “I’m better now,” he announced. “I remember all about it.” He tried to move, but the movement ended in a groan. “Bother! I believe I’ve broken my leg,” he said.

      “Did you tumble down?” asked Phyllis, sniffing.

      “Of course not—I’m not a kiddie,” said the boy, indignantly; “it was one of those beastly wires tripped me up, and when I tried to get up again I couldn’t stand, so I sat down. Gee whillikins! it does hurt, though. How did you get here?”

      “We saw you all go into the tunnel and then we went across the hill to see you all come out. And the others did—all but you, and you didn’t. So we are a rescue party,” said Peter, with pride.

      “You’ve got some pluck, I will say,” remarked the boy.

      “Oh, that’s nothing,” said Peter, with modesty. “Do you think you could walk if we helped you?”

      “I could try,” said the boy.

      He did try. But he could only stand on one foot; the other dragged in a very nasty way.

      “Here, let me sit down. I feel like dying,” said the boy. “Let go of me—let go, quick—” He lay down and closed his eyes. The others looked at each other by the dim light of the little candle.

      “What on earth!” said Peter.

      “Look here,” said Bobbie, quickly, “you must go and get help. Go to the nearest house.”

      “Yes, that’s the only thing,” said Peter. “Come on.”

      “If you take his feet and Phil and I take his head, we could carry him to the manhole.”

      They did it. It was perhaps as well for the sufferer that he had fainted again.

      “Now,” said Bobbie, “I’ll stay with him. You take the longest bit of candle, and,

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