"Well, then, he's lost," Alice said, making the ugly face that means you
are going to blub in half a minute.
Every one had sprung to their feet. Even Noel and H.O. saw at once what
a doddering game Halma is, and Dora and Dicky, whatever their faults,
care more for Pincher than for boxes and screws. Because Pincher is our
fox-terrier. He is of noble race, and he was ours when we were poor,
lonely treasure-seekers and lived in humble hard-upness in the Lewisham
Road.
To the faithful heart of young Oswald the Blackheath affluent mansion
and all it contains, even the stuffed fox eating a duck in the glass
case in the hall that he is so fond of, and even the council he wanted
to have, seemed to matter much less than old Pincher.
"I want you all to let's go out and look for him," said Alice, carrying
out the meaning of the faces she had made and beginning to howl. "Oh,
Pincher, suppose something happens to him; you might get my hat and
coat, Dora. Oh, oh, oh!"
We all got our coats and hats, and by the time we were ready Alice had
conquered it to only sniffing, or else, as Oswald told her kindly, she
wouldn't have been allowed to come.
"Let's go on the Heath," Noel said. "The dear departed dog used to like
digging there."