HUNTING THE FOX
"And bunk sharp, too," he added sternly. "Cut along home."
So they cut.
The white-whiskered gentleman now encouraged his mangy fox-terriers, by every means at his command, to continue their vile and degrading occupation; holding on all the time to the ears of Dicky and Noël, who scorned to ask for mercy.
Dicky got purple and Noël got white. It was Oswald who said:
"Don't hang on to them, sir. We won't cut. I give you my word of honor."
"Your word of honor," said the gentleman, in tones for which, in happier days, when people drew their bright blades and fought duels, I would have had his heart's dearest blood. But now Oswald remained calm and polite as ever.
"Yes, on my honor," he said, and the gentleman dropped the ears of Oswald's brothers at the sound of his firm, unserving tones. He dropped the ears and pulled out the body of the fox and held it up. The dogs jumped up and yelled.
"Now," he said, "You talk very big about words of honor. Can you speak the truth?"
Dicky said, "If you think we shot it, you're wrong. We know better than that."
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."
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