“Well, I have a pigeon, then; at least Daddy told me they did. Only it was under their wings and not round their necks, but it comes to the same thing, and--” “I say,” interrupted Bobbie, “there's to be a paperchase to-morrow.” “Who?” Peter asked. “Grammar School. Perks thinks the hare will go along by the line at first. We might go along the cutting. You can see a long way from there.” The paperchase was found to be a more amusing subject of conversation than the reading powers of swallows. Bobbie had hoped it might be. And next morning Mother let them take their lunch and go out for the day to see the paperchase. “If we go to the cutting,” said Peter, “we shall see the workmen, even if we miss the paperchase.” Of course it had taken some time to get the line clear from the rocks and earth and trees that had fallen on it when the great landslip happened. That was the occasion, you will remember, when the three children saved the train from being wrecked by waving six little red-flannel-petticoat flags. It is always interesting to watch people working, especially when they work with such interesting things as spades and picks and shovels and planks and barrows, when they have cindery red fires in iron pots with round holes in them, and red lamps hanging near the works at night. Of course the children were never out at night; but once, at dusk, when Peter had got out of his bedroom skylight on to the roof, he had seen the red lamp shining far away at the edge of the cutting. The children had often been down to watch the work, and this day the interest of picks and spades, and barrows being wheeled along planks, completely put the paperchase out of their heads, so that they quite jumped when a voice just behind them panted, “Let me pass, please.” It was the hare--a big-boned, loose-limbed boy, with dark hair lying flat on a very damp forehead. The bag of torn paper under his arm was fastened across one shoulder by a strap. The children stood back. The hare ran along the line, and the workmen leaned on their picks to watch him. He ran on steadily and disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel. “That's against the by-laws,” said the foreman. “Why worry?” said the oldest workman; “live and let live's what I always say. Ain't you never been young yourself, Mr. Bates?” “I ought to report him,” said the foreman. “Why spoil sport's what I always say.” “Passengers are forbidden to cross the line on any pretence,” murmured the foreman, doubtfully. “He ain't no passenger,” said one of the workmen. “Nor 'e ain't crossed the line, not where we could see 'im do it,” said another. “Nor yet 'e ain't made no pretences,” said a third. “And,” said the oldest workman, “'e's outer sight now. What the eye don't see the 'art needn't take no notice of's what I always say.”