and sends the cuckoo fleeing in panic before the onset of little birds.
Hazel knew the sound well. It was the watchword of the little children
of despair, the password of the freemasonry to which she belonged.

Before the cry had ceased to horrify the quiet room, she had flung
herself at Reddin, a pattern of womanly obedience no longer, but a
desperate creature fighting in that most intoxicating of all crusades,
the succouring of weakness.

On Reddin's head, a moment ago so smooth, on his face, a moment ago so
bland, rained the blows of Hazel's hard little fists. Her blows were by
no means so negligible as most women's, for her hands were muscular and
strong from digging and climbing, and in her heart was the root of pity
which nerves the most trembling hands to do mighty deeds.

'What the devil!' spluttered Reddin. 'Here, stop it, you little vixen!'

He caught one of her hands, but the other was too quick for him.

'Give over tormenting of it, then!'

The hedgehog rolled on the floor, and the foxhound came and sniffed it.
Reddin had her other hand now.

'What d'you mean by it?' he asked, very angry, and tingling about the
ears.

'Leave it be! It's done you no harm. Lookee! The hound-dog!' she cried.
'Drive him off!'