he began to dig, but his paws soon came against the hard roots, and he was forced to stop.
“Maybe she’ll eat her way out!” suggested the Lion hopefully.
No one thought this very likely. Harlequin stared at the tree, saying, “Hey Presto!” but as usual with no result.
“At any rate,” said Poor Cecco, “we won’t desert her!”
“We’ll stay by the tree all night!” declared the Lion.
And this they prepared to do, each at his station, leaning with their backs against the tree, while the Engine and the Express Wagon parked themselves side by side, within easy call, at the edge of the path.
Night fell; the moon shone out; every few minutes Bulka could be heard whispering: “Tubby, are you asleep? Good-night, Tubby!”
And in the branches above them a black form crouched, sleek and still. It was Murrum, thoroughly well pleased with his performance. There he sat, and stared down with pale contemptuous eyes on the faithful watchers gathered round the tree.
