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 "Who knows whether we may not meet a bear or a crocodile."

We set off gayly. Across the orchard and through two cornfields, and along the hedge of another field, and so we got into the wood, through a gap we had happened to make a day or two before, playing "follow my leader."

The wood was very quiet and green; the dogs were happy and most busy. Once Pincher started a rabbit. We said, "View Halloo!" and immediately started in pursuit; but the rabbit went and hid, so that even Pincher could not find him, and we went on. But we saw no foxes.

So at last we made Dicky be a fox, and chased him down the green rides. A wide walk in a wood is called a ride, even if people never do anything but walk in it.

We had only three hounds—Lady, Pincher, and Martha—so we joined the glad throng and were being hounds as hard as we could, when we suddenly came barking round a corner in full chase and stopped short, for we saw that our fox had stayed his hasty flight. The fox was stooping over something reddish that lay beside the path, and he said:

"I say, look here!" in tones that thrilled us throughout.

Our fox—whom we must now call Dicky, so as not to muddle the narration—pointed to the reddy thing that the dogs were sniffing at.

"It's a real live fox," he said. And so it was. At least it was real—only it was quite dead—and