He was never in the wood at all; and he never touched the pheasant," said the Terror.
"What does that matter?
He _will_ be frightened out of his life; he's so young," cried Erebus in a tone of acute distress, gazing after their receding friend with very anxious eyes.

"He's not like us; he won't cheek the keeper all the way like we should." "Oh, Wiggins has plenty of pluck," said the Terror in a reassuring tone.
"But he won't understand he's all right.

He's only ten.

And there's no saying how that beastly foreigner who shoots nightingales will bully him," cried Erebus with unabated anxiety.
This was her womanly irrational conception of a Pomeranian Briton.
"Well, the sooner we go and fetch his father the sooner he'll be out of it," said the Terror, making as if to mount his bicycle.
"No, no! That won't do at all!" cried Erebus fiercely.

"We've got to rescue him now--at once.