They went on, and Cyril tried to think out a scheme for making his fortune as a gold-digger at Klondyke, and then buying all the caged birds in the world and setting them free. Then they came to a shop that sold cats, but the cats were in cages, and the children could not help wishing someone would buy all the cats and put them on hearthrugs, which are the proper places for cats. And there was the dog-shop, and that was not a happy thing to look at either, because all the dogs were chained or caged, and all the dogs, big and little, looked at the four children with sad wistful eyes and wagged beseeching tails as if they were trying to say, “Buy me! buy me! buy me! and let me go for a walk with you; oh, do buy me, and buy my poor brothers too! Do! do! do!” They almost said, “Do! do! do!” plain to the ear, as they whined; all but one big Irish terrier, and he growled when Jane patted him. “Grrrrr,” he seemed to say, as he looked at them from the back corner of his eye—“_You_ won’t buy me. Nobody will—ever—I shall die chained up—and I don’t know that I care how soon it is, either!” I don’t know that the children would have understood all this, only once they had been in a besieged castle, so they knew how hateful it is to be kept in when you want to get out. Of course they could not buy any of the dogs. They did, indeed, ask the price of the very, very smallest, and it was sixty-five pounds—but that was because it was a Japanese toy spaniel like the Queen once had her portrait painted with, when she was only Princess of Wales. But the children thought, if the smallest was all that money, the biggest would run into thousands—so they went on. And they did not stop at any more cat or dog or bird shops, but passed them by, and at last they came to a shop that seemed as though it only sold creatures that did not much mind where they were—such as goldfish and white mice, and sea-anemones and other aquarium beasts, and lizards and toads, and hedgehogs and tortoises, and tame rabbits and guinea-pigs. And there they stopped for a long time, and fed the guinea-pigs with bits of bread through the cage-bars, and wondered whether it would be possible to keep a sandy-coloured double-lop in the basement of the house in Fitzroy Street. “I don’t suppose old Nurse would mind _very_ much,” said Jane. “Rabbits are most awfully tame sometimes. I expect it would know her voice and follow her all about.” “She’d tumble over it twenty times a day,” said Cyril; “now a snake—” “There aren’t any snakes,” said Robert hastily, “and besides, I never could cotton to snakes somehow—I wonder why.” “Worms are as bad,” said Anthea, “and eels and slugs—I think it’s because we don’t like things that haven’t got legs.” “Father says snakes have got legs hidden away inside of them,” said Robert. “Yes—and he says _we’ve_ got tails hidden away inside _us_—but it doesn’t either of it come to anything _really_,” said Anthea. “I hate things that haven’t any legs.”