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The white-whiskered one turned suddenly to H. O. and pulled him out of the hedge.

“And what does that mean?” he said, and he was pink with fury to the ends of his large ears, as he pointed to the card on H. O.’s breast, which said, “Moat House Fox-Hunters.”

Then Oswald said, “We were playing at fox-hunting, but we couldn’t find anything but a rabbit that hid, so my brother was being the fox, and then we found the fox shot dead, and I don’t know who did it; and we were sorry for it and we buried it–and that’s all.”

“Not quite,” said the riding-breeches gentleman, with what I think you call a bitter smile, “not quite. This is my land, and I’ll have you up for trespass and damage. Come along now, no nonsense! I’m a magistrate and I’m Master of the Hounds. A vixen, too! What did you shoot her with? You’re too young to have a gun. Sneaked your father’s revolver, I suppose?”

Oswald thought it was better to be goldenly silent. But it was vain. The Master of the Hounds made him empty his pockets, and there was the pistol and the cartridges.

The magistrate laughed a harsh laugh of successful disagreeableness.

“All right,” said he, “where’s your license? You come with me. A week or two in prison.”

I don’t believe now he could have done it, but we all thought then he could and would, what’s more.

So H. O. began to cry, but Noel spoke up. His teeth were chattering, yet he spoke up like a man.

He said, “You don’t know us. You’ve no right not to believe us till you’ve found us out in a lie. We don’t tell lies. You ask Albert’s uncle if we do.”

“Hold your tongue,” said the White Whiskered.

But Noel’s blood was up.

“If you do put us in prison without being sure,” he said, trembling more and more, “you are a horrible tyrant like Caligula, and Herod, or Nero, and the Spanish Inquisition, and I will write a poem about it in prison, and people will curse you forever.”

“Upon my word,” said White Whiskers, “we’ll see about that,” and he turned up the lane with the fox hanging from one hand and Noel’s ear once more reposing in the other.

I thought Noel would cry or faint. But he bore up nobly–exactly like an early Christian martyr.

The rest of us came along too. I carried the spade and Dicky had the fork, H. O. had the card, and Noel had the magistrate. At the end of the lane there was Alice. She had bunked home, obeying the orders of her thoughtful brother, but she had bottled back again like a shot, so as not to be out of the scrape. She is almost worthy to be a boy for some things.

She spoke to Mr. Magistrate and said:

“Where are you taking him?”

The outraged majesty of the magistrate said, “To prison, you naughty little girl.”

Alice said, “Noel will faint. Somebody once tried to take him to prison before–about a dog. Do please come to our house and see our uncle–at least he’s not–but it’s the same thing. We didn’t kill the fox, if that’s what you think–indeed we didn’t. Oh, dear, I do wish you’d think of your own little boys and girls if you’ve got any, or else about when you were little. You wouldn’t be so horrid if you did.”

I don’t know which, if either, of these objects the fox-hound master thought of, but he said:

“Well, lead on,” and he let go Noel’s ear and Alice snuggled up to Noel and put her arm round him.

It was a frightened procession, whose cheeks were pale with alarm–except those between white whiskers, and they were red–that wound in at our gate and into the hall, among the old oak furniture and black and white marble floor and things.

Dora and Daisy were at the door. The pink petticoat lay on the table, all stained with the gore of the departed. Dora looked at us all, and she saw that it was serious. She pulled out the big oak chair and said: