HUNTING THE FOX
But Noël'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 Noël's ear once more reposing in the other.
I thought Noël 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 Noël 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, "Noël 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
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