"I wonder whether Chico would find mother," he said.
Jock brightened; Armine found an envelope in his pocket, and
scribbled—-
"On the moraine. Jock's ankle sprained—-Come."
Then Jock produced a bit of string, wherewith it was fastened to the
dog's collar, and then authoritatively bade Chico go to mother.
Alas! cleverness had never been Chico's strong point, and the present
extremity did not inspire him with sagacity. He knew the way as
little as his masters did, and would only dance about in an unmeaning
way, and when ordered home crouch in abject entreaty. Jock grew
impatient and threatened him, but this only made him creep behind
Armine, put his tail between his legs, hold up his little paw, and
look piteously imploring.
"There's no use in the little brute," sighed Jock at last, but the
attempt had done him good and recalled his nerve and good sense.
"We are in for a night of it," he said, "unless they find us; and how
are they ever to do that in this beastly fog?"
"We must halloo," said Armine, attempting it.
"Yes, and we don't know when to begin! We can't go on all night, you
know," said Jock; "and if we begin too soon, we may have no voice
left just at the right time."
"It is half-past seven now," said Armine, looking at his watch.
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