It was not more than a hundred and fifty yards from the spot where they had stood while the train went by that Peter stood still, shouted “Hullo,” and then went on much quicker than before. When the others caught him up, he stopped. And he stopped within a yard of what they had come into the tunnel to look for. Phyllis saw a gleam of red, and shut her eyes tight. 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. No, I know we haven't any, but milk's just as wet. There's a whole bottle.” “Yes,” said Peter, “and they rub people's hands, I believe.” “They burn feathers, I know,” said Phyllis. “What's the good of saying that when we haven't any feathers?” “As it happens,” said Phyllis, in a tone of exasperated triumph, “I've got a shuttlecock in my pocket. So there!” And now Peter rubbed the hands of the red-jerseyed one. Bobbie burned the feathers of the shuttlecock one by one under his nose, Phyllis splashed warmish milk on his forehead, and all three kept on saying as fast and as earnestly as they could:-- “Oh, look up, speak to me! For my sake, speak!” Chapter XII. What Bobbie brought home. “Oh, look up! Speak to me! For MY sake, speak!” The children said the words over and over again to the unconscious hound in a red jersey, who sat with closed eyes and pale face against the side of the tunnel. “Wet his ears with milk,” said Bobbie. “I know they do it to people that faint--with eau-de-Cologne. But I expect milk's just as good.” So they wetted his ears, and some of the milk ran down his neck under the red jersey. It was very dark in the tunnel. The candle end Peter had carried, and which now burned on a flat stone, gave hardly any light at all. “Oh, DO look up,” said Phyllis. “For MY sake! I believe he's dead.” “For MY sake,” repeated Bobbie. “No, he isn't.” “For ANY sake,” said Peter; “come out of it.” And he shook the sufferer by the arm. And then the boy in the red jersey sighed, and opened his eyes, and shut them again and said in a very small voice, “Chuck it.” “Oh, he's NOT dead,” said Phyllis. “I KNEW he wasn't,” and she began to cry. “What's up? I'm all right,” said the boy. “Drink this,” said Peter, firmly, thrusting the nose of the milk bottle into the boy's mouth. The boy struggled, and some of the milk was upset before he could get his mouth free to say:-- “What is it?” “It's milk,” said Peter. “Fear not, you are in the hands of friends. Phil, you stop bleating this minute.” “Do drink it,” said Bobbie, gently; “it'll do you good.”