There, by the curved, pebbly down line, was the red-jerseyed hound.

His back was against the wall, his arms hung limply by his sides, and his eyes were shut.
"Was the red, blood?
Is he all killed ?" asked Phyllis, screwing her eyelids more tightly together.
"Killed?
Nonsense!" said Peter.

"There's nothing red about him except his jersey.

He's only fainted.

What on earth are we to do ?" "Can we move him ?" asked Bobbie.
"I don't know; he's a big chap." "Suppose we bathe his forehead with water.