Читать книгу Pemrose Lorry, Radio Amateur онлайн

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Simultaneously with her cry the red fox, in his new terra-cotta coat—poor little skinny ten-pound victim—ceased beating the earth with his bushy tail, that had a creamy powder puff at the tip, sat up on his haunches, ruff bristling, mouth stretching in a tortured grin over the bared, white fangs, chest heavily panting—and looked at them.

“Gosh! he’s all in. He—he looks as if he was making sifflication to us.”

The cry was wrenched from Andrew; his answer to that dumb supplication was to throw the throttle open and shoot the big car forward.

But, like a flash, Pemrose was upon him from behind.

“Oh! he is begging us. He is begging us,” she cried, clutching throttle and wheel herself, so that the big car rocked in groaning indecision. “We—we just can’t go on and leave him—leave him to die—slowly.”

“Who’s about doin’ it?” growled Andrew. “Sit down, lassie. Don’t tak’ the fling-strings or ye’ll hae us in the ditch. I’m just for driving on to the top o’ yon hill, there; then I’ll come back an’ free him—I’ll come back an’ win’-free him.”