THE WOULDBEGOODS
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 Noël 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.
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