“Not since they started for May’s Farm,” I said. “Haven’t they come back yet? They have been ages.”

  “They are a nuisance,” said Mrs. Westlake, “but I can’t think what can have happened to them. They can’t have fallen off because they’re walking and there are too many of them to have been kidnapped or murdered. Oh, well, I suppose we may as well have tea and then, if they still haven’t turned up, we can go and look for them afterwards.”

  “I always said that they’d break their necks,” said Gladys gloomily.

  We had hardly started tea when Adrian appeared, looking hot and even dirtier than usual.

  “We’ve lost Brock,” he announced in tragic tones. “He went into Great Beardsley Wood after a rabbit and just disappeared. We shouted ourselves hoarse and looked everywhere, but there isn’t a sign of him. I left the others searching and came home because we thought that you might be anxious.”

  “I was rather,” said Mrs. Westlake. “Well, you’d better have some tea, Adrian,” she went on, “and I’ll ask Gladys to put some in a thermos for the others. Cut some slices of chocolate cake for them, please, Christabel. Which end of Great Beardsley Wood are they?” she asked Adrian. “Would it be quicker to take the car or walk up through the fields?”

  “The car, I should think,” said Adrian. “It was at the May’s Farm end that we lost him and I agreed to meet the others by the gallows tree.”

  “Come on, then,” said Mrs. Westlake, “you can finish eating on the way.”

  We bundled into the car and Mrs. Westlake drove us swiftly to Beardsley Wood which seemed to be enormous and almost entirely composed of pines. Adrian led us unerringly through a maze of almost unrecognisable paths, to a giant oak which had once, apparently, been a gallows tree. It stood alone in a little clearing—a sad and solitary giant—stretching huge spreading branches to the sky as if begging for release from the hostile circle of stiff and uncongenial pines. There was no sign of Simon, Gay or Lucy, but Adrian’s hunting cries brought an answering shout and, after a few moments, Gay appeared. In answer to our eager questions she told us that they hadn’t found the smallest trace of Brock, who seemed to have vanished into thin air.

  When Simon and Lucy arrived we fed the tealess Westlakes and then we all began to search. I will not dwell on that horrid evening; if you have ever lost a dog you will know what it was like and if you haven’t, I hope with all my heart you never will. We walked through that beastly wood for hours; looking down rabbit holes and peering into bushes to see if he was caught in a trap. No one but Gay, who was Brock’s official owner, was allowed to call his name for fear of muddling him.

  The rest of us searched in gloomy silence. Of course I kept getting into a panic and thinking that I was wandering round in circles; my legs ached horribly and I was in perpetual dread of being lost in the wood when darkness came. I imagined the faint ghostly voices that the trees would converse in, the utter blackness and the frightful never-ending paths, which one would rush down, trying to find the way out of the wood. I knew that I would keep peering over my shoulder to see if anyone was following me and I would hear the tiny crackling sound my feet made on the carpet of pine needles, too small to hear by day, but which would accompany me everywhere in the silent wood at night. It was useless to tell myself not to be such an idiot. The moments passed quickly and each one brought evening nearer. Already the wood was melancholy with the first grey of twilight. I hurried forward; fear made me forget my aching legs and almost, I am sorry to say, Brock. I was glad when at last I saw sky through the tree-trunks; it was marvellous to escape from the suffocating smell of the pine needles. I found that I had come out on a heath very like the one I had discovered on the second day of my visit to the Westlakes. In fact I soon realised that it was the same one for, on crossing it, I came to the ploughed field and knew then that Underwood Farm lay just below me in the valley. I had been told by the Westlakes, at the beginning of the search, that if I kept straight I would come on a road; but, considering the way I had wandered about in the wood it was hardly surprising I felt that I had come out in the wrong place. I turned right, away from Underwood Farm, and walked on until, at last, I struck a road. We were a sad and exhausted party when at last we found each other; it was nearly dark and no one had seen a sign of Brock.

  “It’s no good,” said Mrs. Westlake, “we shall have to give up for to-night; it’s too dark to see anything; we shall have to wait until to-morrow.” The Westlake children all looked very miserable at these words, but it was obvious to anyone that further search that night would be of little use. Drearily we made our way back to the car and drove home in silence, except for Mrs. Westlake telling us a story about a dog, which she had had when she was a child. He had been lost for three days and, just as she was despairing of ever seeing him again, he had turned up, rather thin, but otherwise perfectly all right.

  In spite of the smallness of their teas, the Westlakes didn’t eat much dinner and they all went to bed directly afterwards, having set their alarm clocks for half-past five. I too went to bed, but not to sleep. I didn’t intend to miss my nightly ride. When all was quiet I crept out, with even greater caution than usual, for I didn’t know who might not be listening for the sound of a whine or a bark on the still night air. It was cold and there was a slight frost. I shivered, in spite of my three pullovers, as I saddled and bridled Shadow: it was the last night that I was going to ride him, I had promoted myself to Wisdom for my next lesson. The countryside looked very unreal in the bright moonlight; the sky was clear and the stars seemed nearer and much larger than usual. I wondered whether people really lived on them and if they rode ponies and lost dogs. Dogs: that reminded me of Brock. I suddenly realised the significance of a sound that I had been absorbing subconsciously: a sound that was faint and muffled on the still night air. Faint, but there. I listened again. Yes, there it was: my heart rose in excitement. Could it be Brock? I heard it once more and was spurred to action.

  “Come on, Shadow,” I said as I turned him and trotted towards the sound, which seemed to come from the direction of the heath. I pulled open the little rickety gate into the still dark wood. My eyes soon became used to the darkness and I rode down the path a little way before pulling up to listen. It was very eerie and I was glad of Shadow’s company. Here and there the silver shafts of moonlight found their way through the trees and glimmered on their grey-green trunks, but elsewhere, the wood was dim and faintly menacing. I shivered as I listened and then I patted and spoke to Shadow to hide my nervousness. Shadow fidgeted: his hoofs rustled in the carpet of leaves and his bit made a comforting little jingling noise.

  At last my patience was rewarded; I heard the muffled whine again, much closer and rather to my right. I trotted on down the path and then, thinking that I must be close upon Brock, I pulled up again and waited. There it was! That tired little whine; it seemed to come from some bramble bushes a few yards from the path. I jumped off Shadow and led him forward. He followed obediently. The beastly brambles tore at my legs and suddenly I stumbled into a hole; there was another whine, this time almost under my feet. “Brock, Brock,” I said, “good dog. Where are you?” I lay down on my tummy and thrust my arm down the hole. Shadow nibbled at the leaves and waited patiently.

  “Brock, Brock,” I called. There was an answering whine and a faint scratching sound. He was in my hole but I couldn’t feel him. I stretched and strained and at last I could just feel the little tassel of hair at the end of his tail. “Oh, Brock,” I said, “you must make an effort. Come on, can’t you turn round?” But evidently he couldn’t for he only whined again.

  “Oh, dear,” I said, “I’ll have to get help. Be patient, Brock, I won’t be long, I promise.” I got to my feet. How should I mark the spot so that I would know it again? He might be too exhausted to bark or whine by the time that I had roused the Westlakes. I found a sharp flint and cut a cross in the hark of a nearby tree and as I rode back down the path, I carefully noticed where I turned: right, right, left and right again. Now we were back at the gate. I dismounted and led Shadow through. In a few moments I had his tack off and turned him out in his field. I didn’t intend to give away the secret of my midnight rides. When I had put the tack away in the saddle room I ran into the house and upstairs.

  “Simon,” I said, opening the door of his bedroom a few inches, “Simon, I’ve found Brock.”

  “Who’s that?” he asked, sitting up, “what’s that? What did you say?”

  “It’s me, Christabel,” I said, “I’ve found Brock. He’s stuck in a rabbit hole. Come on, quickly, he may suffocate if we don’t hurry.”

  “Are you sure you’re not dreaming?” he asked, getting slowly out of bed.

  “No, of course I’m not,” I said, “do buck up.”

  “Where is he?” Simon asked, putting on his coat.

  “In the little wood by the heath,” I answered, “for goodness’ sake hurry. He’s stuck; we shall have to dig him out. Shall I get a spade? Where are they kept?”

  “Go and tell Gay,” said Simon, “I shan’t be a sec.”

  I dashed into Gay’s room. “Oy,” I said,” wake up. I’ve found Brock.” She opened her eyes and gave a sleepy sort of groan. “What on earth’s the matter?” she asked, sitting up in bed.

  “I’ve found Brock stuck down a rabbit hole and we’ve got to dig him out,” I said impatiently.

  “You’ve found Brock?” she said, leaping out of bed. “Where? Is he all right? He’s not dead, is he?”

  “No, of course not,” I said,” though I should think he will be by the time we get there at this rate.”

  This remark hurried Gay up. She threw a coat on over her pyjamas and asked me if I could see her shoes. I handed them to her.

  “I’m just going to collect the tools,” said Simon, putting his head round the door. “I’ll meet you in the yard in a sec.”

  As soon as Gay was ready we hurried downstairs and, while she filled her pockets with dog biscuits, I found the torch and then we dashed out to the farmyard. Simon was waiting impatiently. “Gosh, you’ve been hours,” he said. We each took a fork or spade and set off for the wood at a brisk jog; I wasn’t in such good training as the Westlakes and I soon dropped behind, but they waited for me at the gate into the wood.

  “I can’t hear a thing,” said Gay as I caught up. “Are you sure this is the right wood?”

  “Yes, quite,” I answered, “I only hope he hasn’t suffocated. We must hurry.” I led the way carefully reversing the directions which I had memorised: right, left, right and right again. There was the tall tree with the wound in its bark gleaming white in the moonlight. “He’s here, somewhere,” I told the Westlakes as I turned off the path.

  “Brock, Brock,” we all called, but there was no answering whine.

  “Are you sure that this is the right place?” asked Simon anxiously.

  “Yes, dead certain,” I said. “I marked the tree. He’s in one of these holes here; just out of reach, unless you’ve got longer arms than I have.”

  “Well, if he isn’t going to make a sound we shall just have to try every hole,” said Simon. “You call, Gay, he’s your dog.” Gay called again and again, but there was no whine or bark from Brock, I lay down on my tummy amongst the brambles and thrust my arm down each hole in turn, calling “Brock” softly. After trying three holes without success I began to panic. I decided that I must have brought the Westlakes to the wrong spot; unless the thing in the hole which I had thought was Brock, was really a rabbit or worse of all—that I had dreamed the whole thing. I got to my feet and walked back to the tall tree. Yes, it was marked all right. There was the same small cross that I remembered cutting with a flint; I couldn’t have dreamed it then, and this must be the right spot. I went back to the clump of brambles and started to help Simon and Gay search the holes again. Suddenly Gay said, “Ssh, listen!” I stopped floundering about in the brambles and listened with all my ears. There it was, a faint tired little whine very close to Gay.

  “Brock, Brock,” she called, plunging her hand down another hole. “Oh, I believe he’s down here,” she said, “I can hear something moving, but I can’t feel anything. I’m sure he’s there, but I can’t reach him.”

  “Here, let me have a try,” said Simon, “my arms are the longest.” He, too, lay down amid the brambles and, after a few moments of turning and stretching he said excitedly, “It is him, I think; I can feel something soft. Brock, Brock.”

  “Can you reach him?” asked Gay. “Is he stuck?”

  “He’s too far down,” said Simon. “I can touch him but I can’t get hold of him. We shall have to dig.”

  “This beastly tree is in the way,” I said, “it’s bang over the place where he’s stuck.”

  “Yes,” said Simon, “the hole seems to narrow as it goes between two roots, and that’s where he’s stuck. We shall have to dig on the far side of the tree and try to pull him out forwards, as far as I can see.”

  Gay seized a spade and started digging feverishly: Simon took the fork and I the other spade. It was hard work: the ground was stony, roots grew everywhere and brambles clutched and tore at one as one toiled. Simon soon broke the fork, levering at a root, and then it was worse than ever; the spades made little impression on the hard, rock-like soil. We took it in turns to use them; the third person pulled and wrenched at roots, which had defeated the hacking of the spade wielders. My hands were soon blistered, but I didn’t have time to think about them; for Gay, sure that Brock was suffocating under our very feet, dug faster and more madly than ever. At last we struck the rabbit hole. We cleared an entrance to it and Simon lay down and peered in.

  “I can see him,” he said, “Brock, Brock; good dog, come here.” Nothing happened so Simon pushed his hand and arm into the hole.

  “I’ve got his collar,” he said suddenly in a muffled voice.

  “Be careful,” said Gay. “Don’t throttle him.”

  “Come on, dog,” said Simon. “Do make an effort.” He wriggled into a kneeling position, still pulling at Brock. “He’s coming,” said Simon and, in a few moments, a wet, muddy, barely recognisable Brock appeared. Gay threw herself upon him. “Oh, Brock,” she said,” are you all right?” I collected the spades and fork and then, when the Westlakes had assured themselves that apart from being dirty, tired and very hungry, Brock was quite all right, we set off for home, taking it in turns to carry Brock and the tools. Now that all the excitement was over I felt tired and cold. My hands smarted from blisters and bramble scratches and my back ached from digging. I think that Simon and Gay felt tired too, for they didn’t talk much, except to Brock.

  “We’d better wake the others and tell them we’ve found him, hadn’t we?” said Simon as we reached the front door.

  “Yes,” said Gay, “we don’t want them to worry needlessly. Will you tell them, while I find something for Brock to eat?”

  “O.K.,” said Simon, and he ran upstairs and started to shout, “We’ve found Brock,” into the different rooms. Gay and I mixed Brock a huge dish of warm bread and milk; it looked perfectly revolting, but he ate it with great relish. By the time that he had finished Mrs. Westlake, Lucy and Adrian had all appeared in dressing-gowns and pyjamas to hear how we had found him.

  “We had to dig him out,” said Simon, “he was hopelessly stuck.”

  “You look like it,” said Mrs. Westlake, “I’ve never seen three such muddy people.”

  There hadn’t been much time to think of appearances while we were digging for Brock, but now I looked at Gay and Simon and realised that I, too, must be in the same sort of mess. Their pyjamas were caked in mud; their faces and hands were filthy. Simon’s coat was torn, three long bramble scratches on his forehead were bleeding and his hair was on end. Gay looked like the Witch of Endor.

  “Gosh,” I said, “we do seem to be in a bit of a mess, don’t we?” And I looked down at myself and realised, with a start of horror, that I was wearing jodhs. I looked up and saw that Simon had noticed too; he looked curious, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Can we have a midnight feast, Mummy?” asked Adrian.

  “Greedy wretch,” said Gay.

  “Well, I don’t know that you need anything,” said Mrs. Westlake, “but I think we’d better feed the rescue party.”

  “Do tell us how you found Brock,” said Lucy.

  “Christabel wakened me,” said Gay, “but how on earth did you know where he was?” she asked, looking at me. This was the question I had been dreading since l realised that I was wearing my jodhs. “I thought I heard a bark,” I lied, “so I went out to investigate, I found him quite easily, but I soon decided that I would never get him out alone so I came back for you.”

  “Well, thanks awfully anyway,” said Gay, “but you must have frightfully good ears and be a jolly light sleeper; I should never have heard him and I’m sure that he would have died of exhaustion by morning.”

  “Nonsense,” I said, “you’d have found him in the end.”

  “Look out,” shouted Lucy, “the chocolate’s boiling over.”