Dead or Modern
Chic if Seven
Are Purchased at Once.
Gwendolyn clapped her hands. "Oo! how nice!" she exclaimed, finding her voice again.
"Quite so," said the little old gentleman, shoving away a tray of chins and cheeks and reaching for a forehead. "Welcome, convenient, and satisfactory."
She saw her opportunity. "Please," she began, "I'd like to buy six." She counted on her fingers. "I'll have a French tongue, a German tongue, a Greek tongue, a Latin tongue, and—later, though, if you don't happen to have 'em on hand—a Spanish and an Italian." Then she heaved a sigh of relief. "I'm glad I saw these," she added. "They'll save me a lot of work. And they've helped me about a def'nition. I looked for 'lashing' in my big dictionary. And it said 'to whip.' But I couldn't see how anybody could whip anybody else with a tongue. Now, though—"
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces nodded. "Just wait till you see the King's English," he bragged.
"The King's English? Will I see him?"
"Likely to," he answered, selecting an eye. He had all his eyes about him in a circle, each looking as natural as life. There were blue eyes and brown eyes, hazel eyes and—
"Ah!" she exclaimed suddenly. "I remember! It was you who gave the Policeman a black eye!"
"One fine black eye," he answered, chuckling as he poked about in a pile of noses and selected a large-sized one. "Yes! Yes! And recently I made a lovely blue pair for a bad-tempered child who'd cried her own eyes out."
She assented. She had heard of just such a case. "Once I saw some eyes in a shop-window," she confided. "It was a shop where you could buy spectacles."
He wagged his beard proudly. "I made every one of 'em!" he boasted. "Oh, yes, indeed." And polished away at the tip of the large nose.
She considered for a moment. "I'm glad I know," she said gravely. "I wanted to, awful much."
After that she studied the bill-board for a time. And presently discovered that a second supply of eyes was displayed there, being set in it as jewels are set in brooches!
She pointed. "What kind are those?"
He looked surprised at the question. "The bill-board is the rear wall of my shop," said he. "And those eyes are wall-eyes."
She flushed with pleasure. "That's exactly what I thought!" she declared.
She began to walk up and down, one hand in the patch-pocket—to make sure it was really there. For this was all too good to be true. Here, in this Land so new to her, and so wonderful, were things about which she had pondered, and puzzled, and asked questions—the tongues, for instance, and the lime-lights, and the soda-water. How simply and naturally each was now explained!—explained as she herself had imagined each would be. She felt a sudden pride in herself. So far had anything been really unexpected? As she went back to pause in front of the little old gentleman, it was with a delightful sense of understanding. Oh, this was one of her pretend-games, gloriously come true!
Now she felt a very flood of questions surge to her lips. She pointed to a deep yellow bowl set on the table beside him. "Would you mind telling me what that is?" she asked.
"That? That's a sauce-box." And he smiled.
"Oh!—What's it full of, please?"
"Full of mouths,"—cheerily.
It was her turn to smile. She smiled into the sauce-box. At its center was a queer object, very like a short length of dried apple-peeling.
"I s'pose that's part of a mouth?" she ventured.
He picked up the object and balanced it across his thumb. "You've guessed it!" he declared. "And it's a fine thing to carry around with one. You see, it's a stiff upper lip." He tossed it back.
"My!" She took a deep breath. "Once I asked and asked about a stiff upper lip."
He went on with his polishing. "Should think you'd be more interested in these," he observed, giving a nod of the ragged hat toward a shallow dish at his elbow. "Little girls generally are."
She looked, and saw that the dish was heaped high with what seemed to be white peanuts—peanuts that tapered to a point at one end. She puckered her brows over them.
"Can't guess?" said he. "Then you didn't drink enough of that soda-water. Well, ever hear of a sweet tooth?"
At that she clapped her hands and jumped up and down. "Why, I've got one!" she cried.
"Oh?" said the little old gentleman. "Thought so. I always keep a supply on hand. Carve 'em myself, out of cube sugar."
"Oh, aren't they funny!" She leaned above the shallow dish.
"Funny?" repeated the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Not when they get into the wrong mouth!—a wry mouth, for instance, or an ugly mouth. A sweet tooth should go, you understand, only with a sweet face."
"Is it a sweet tooth that makes a face sweet?" she inquired.
"Quite so." He held up the nose to examine it critically.
She watched him in silence for a while. Then, "You don't mind telling me who's going to have that?" she ventured, pointing a finger at the nose.
"This? Oh, this is for a certain little boy's father."
She blinked thoughtfully. "Is his name," she began—and stopped.
"His father—the unfortunate man—has been keeping his own nose to the grindstone pretty steadily of late, and so—"
"I can't just remember the name I'm thinking about," said Gwendolyn, troubled.
He glanced up. And the round, bright eyes were grave as he searched her face. "I wonder," he said in a low voice, "if you know who you are."
She smiled. "Well, I've been acquainted with myself for seven years," she declared.
"But do you know who you are?" (The round eyes were full of tears!)
She felt uncertain. "I did just a little while ago. Now, though—"
He reached to take her hand. "Shall I tell you?"
"Yes,"—in a whisper.
"You're the Poor Little Rich Girl." He patted her hand. "The Poor Little Rich Girl!"
She nodded bravely, and stood looking up at him. He was old and unkempt. Out at elbows, too. And the bottoms of his baggy trousers hung in dusty shreds. But his lined and bearded face was kind! "I—I haven't been so very happy," she said falteringly.
He shook his head. "Not happy! And no step-relations, either!"
"Well,—er," (she felt uncertain) "there are some step-houses just across the street."
"Not the same thing," he declared shortly. "But, hm! hm!"—as he coughed, he waved an arm cheerily. "Things will improve. Oh, yes. All you've got to do is follow my advice."
The gray eyes were wistful, and questioning.
"You've got a lot to do," he went on. "Oh, a great deal. For instance"—here he paused, running his fingers through his long hair—"there's Miss Royle, and Thomas, and Jane."
She was silent for a long moment. Miss Royle! Thomas! Jane! In the joy of being out of doors, of having real dirt to scuff in, and high grass through which to brush; of having a plaid gingham with a pocket, and all the fizzing drink she wished; of being able to dabble and wade; and of having good, squashy soda-mud for pies—in the joy at all this she had utterly forgotten them!
She looked up at the tapered trees, and down at the flower-bordered ground; then at the bill-board, and the loaded tables of that marvelous establishment. There was still so much to see! And, oh, how many scores of questions to ask!
He bent until his beard swept the sauce-box. "You'll just have to keep out of their clutches," he declared.
Again she nodded, twisting and untwisting her fingers. "I thought maybe they didn't come here."
"Come?" he grunted. "Won't they be hunting you? Well, keep out of their clutches, I say. That's absolutely necessary. You'll see why—if you let 'em get you! For—how'll you ever find your father?"
"Oh!" A sudden flush swept her face. She looked at the ground. She had forgotten Miss Royle and Thomas and Jane. Worse! Until that moment she had forgotten her father and mother!
"There's that harness of his," went on the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. He thought a moment, pursing his lips and twiddling his thumbs. "We'll have to consider how we can get rid of it."
She glanced up. "Where does he come?" she asked huskily; "my fath-er?"
"Um! Yes, where?" He seemed uneasy; scratched his jaw; and rearranged a row of chins. "Well, the fact is, he comes here to—er—buy candles that burn at both ends."
"Of course. Is it far?"
"Out in a new fashionable addition—yes, addition, subtraction, multiplication."
"You won't mind showing me the way?" Now her face grew pale with earnestness.
He smiled sadly. "I? Your father thinks poorly of me. He's driven me off the block once or twice, you know. Though"—he looked away thoughtfully—"when you come to think of it there isn't such a lot of difference between your father and me. He makes money: I make faces."
It was one of those unpleasant moments when there seemed very little to be said. She stood on the other foot.
He began polishing once more. "Then there's that bee," he resumed—
"Moth-er."
He went on as quickly as possible. "Of course there are lots of things worse than one of those so-cial hon-ey-gath-er-ing in-sects—"
"She sees nothing else! She hears nothing else!"
"Um! We'll help her get rid of it!—if!"
"If?"
"You've got a lot to overcome. Recollect the Policeman?"
She retreated a step.
"Just suppose we meet him! And the Bear that—"
"My!"
"Yes. And a certain Doctor."
"Oh, dear!"
"Bad! Pretty bad!"
"Where does my moth-er come?"—timidly.
The question embarrassed. "Er—the place is full of carriage-lamps," he began; "and—and side-lights, and search-lights, and—er—lanterns."
She looked concerned. "I can't guess."
"Just ordinary lanterns," he added. "You see, the Madam comes to—to Robin Hood's Barn."
"Robin Hood's Barn!"
"Exactly. Nice day, isn't it?"
By the expression on his face, Gwendolyn judged that Robin Hood's Barn—of which she had often heard—was a most undesirable spot. "Is it far?" she asked, swallowing.
"No. Only—we'll have to go around it."
Somehow, all at once, he seemed the one friend she had. She put out a hand to him. "You will go with me?" she begged. "Oh, I want to find my fath-er, and my moth-er!"
"You want to tell 'em the real truth about those three servants they're hiring. Unless I'm much mistaken, your parents have never taken one good square look at those three."
"Oh, let's start." Now, of a sudden, all the hopes and plans of the past months came crowding back into her mind. "I want to sit at the grown-up table," she declared. "And I want to live in the country, and go to day-school."
He hung the hand-organ over a shoulder. "You can do every one of them," he said, "if we find your father and mother."
"We'll find them," she cried determinedly.
"We'll find 'em," he said, "if, as we go along, we don't leave one—single—stone—unturned."
"Oh!" she glanced about her, searching the ground.
"Not one," he repeated. "And now—we'll start." He picked up two or three small articles—an ear, a handful of hair, a plump cheek.
"But there's a stone right here," said Gwendolyn. It was a small one, and lay at her feet, close to the table-leg.
He peered over. "All right! Turn it!"
She stooped—turned the rock—straightened.
The next moment a chill swept her; the next, she felt a heavy hand upon her shoulder, and clumsy fingers busy with the buttons on the gingham dress.
"Tee! hee! hee! hee!"
It was the voice that had called from a distance. Hearing it now she felt a sudden, sickish, sinking feeling. She whirled.
A strange creature was kneeling behind her—a creature dressed in black sateen, and like no human being that she had ever met before. For it was two-faced!
One face (the front) was blowzy and freckled, with a small pug nose and a quarrelsome mouth. The other (the face on what, with ordinary persons, was the back of the head) was dark and forbidding, its nose a large brick-colored pug, the mouth underneath shaped most extraordinarily—not unlike a barrette, for it was wide and long, and square at the corners, and full of shining tortoise-shell teeth! But the creature had only one tongue. This was loose at both ends, so that there was one tip for her front face, and one for the back. But she had only one pair of eyes. These were reddish. They watched Gwendolyn boldly from the front; then rolled quickly to the rear to stare at the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.
At sight of the two-faced creature, Gwendolyn shrank away, frightened.
"Oh!—oh, my!" she faltered.
Both horrid mouths now bellowed hilariously. And the creature reached out a big hand.
"Look here, Gwendolyn!" it ordered. "You ain't goin'!"
Gwendolyn lifted terrified eyes for a second look at the brick-colored hair, the blowzy countenance. No possibility of doubt remained!
It was Jane!
CHAPTER IX
Bobbing and swaying foolishly, the nurse-maid shuffled to her feet. And Gwendolyn, though she wanted to turn and flee beyond the reach of those big, clutching hands, found herself rooted to the ground, and could only stand and stare helplessly.
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces stepped to her side hastily. His look was perturbed. "My! My!" he exclaimed under his breath. "She's worse than I thought!—much worse."
With a little gasp of relief at having him so near, Gwendolyn slipped her trembling fingers into his. "She's worse than I thought," she managed to whisper back.
Neither was given a chance to say more. For seeing them thus, hand in hand, Jane suddenly started forward—with a great boisterous hop and skip. Her front face was distorted with a jealous scowl. She gave Gwendolyn a rough sidewise shove.
"Git away from that old beggar!" she commanded harshly. "Why, he'll kidnap you! Look at his knife!"
Nimbly the little old gentleman thrust himself in front of her, barring her way, and shielding Gwendolyn. "Who told you where she was?" he asked angrily.
"Who?" mocked Jane, impudently. "Well, who is it that tells people things?"
"You mean the Bird?"
Jane's front face broke into a pleased grin. "I mean the Bird," she bragged And balanced from foot to foot.
Gwendolyn, peeking round at her, of a sudden felt a fresh concern. The Bird!—the same Bird that had repeated tales against her father! And now he was tattling on her! She saw all her hopes of finding her parents, all her happy plans, in danger of being blighted.
"Oh, my goodness!" she said mournfully.
She was holding tight to the little old gentleman's coat-tails. Now he leaned down. "We must get rid of her," he declared. "You know what I said. She'll make us trouble!"
"Here! None of that!" It was Jane once more, the grin replaced by a dark look. "I'll have you know this child is in my charge." Again she tried to seize Gwendolyn.
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces stood his ground resolutely—and swung the curved knife up to check any advance.
"She doesn't need you," he declared "She's seven, and she's grown-up." And to Gwendolyn, "Tell her so! Don't be afraid! Tell her!"
Gwendolyn promptly opened her mouth. But try as she would, she could not speak. Her lips seemed dry. Her tongue refused to move. She could only swallow!
As if he understood her plight, the little old gentleman suddenly sprang aside to where was the sauce-box, snatched something out of it, ran to the other table and picked up an oblong leather case (a case exactly like the gold-mounted one in which Miss Royle kept her spectacles), put the something out of the sauce-box into the case, closed the case with a snap, and put it, with a swift motion, into Gwendolyn's hand.
"There!" he cried triumphantly. "There's that stiff upper lip! Now you can answer."
It was true! No sooner did she feel the leather case against her palm, than her fear, and her hesitation and lack of words, were gone!
She assumed a determined attitude, and went up to Jane. "I don't need you," she said firmly. "'Cause I'm seven years old now, and I'm grown up. And—what are you here for anyhow?"
At the very boldness of it, Jane's manner completely changed. That front countenance took on a silly simper. And she put her two-faced head, now on one side, now on the other, ingratiatingly.
"What am I here for!" she repeated in an injured tone. "And you ask me that, Miss? Why, what should I be doin' for you, lovie, but dancin' attendance."
At that, she began to act most curiously, stepping to the right and pointing a toe, stepping to the left and pointing a toe; setting down one heel, setting down the other; then taking a waltzing turn.
"Oh!" said Gwendolyn, understanding. (For dancing attendance was precisely what Jane was doing!) After observing the other's antics for a moment, she tossed her head. "Well, if that's all you want to do," she said unconcernedly, "why, dance."
"Yes, dance," broke in the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, snapping his fingers. "Frolic and frisk and flounce!"
Jane obeyed. And waltzed up to the bill-board. "Say! what's the price of that big braid?" she called—between her tortoise-shell teeth. She had spied the red coronet, and was admiring its plaited beauty.
From under those long, square brows, the little old gentleman frowned across the table at her. "I'll quote you no prices," he answered. "You haven't paid me yet for your extra face."
Jane's reply was an impudent double-laugh. She was examining the different things on the bill-board, and hopping sillily from foot to foot.
Gwendolyn tugged gently at a coat-tail. "Can't we run now?" she asked; "and hide?"
Boom-er-oom-er-oom!
"Sh!" warned the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, not stirring. "What was that!"
"I don't know."
Both held their breath. And Gwendolyn took a more firm hold of the lip-case.
After a moment the little old gentleman began to speak very low: "We shan't be able to steal away. She's watching us out of the back of her head!"
"Yes. I can see 'em shine!"
"I believe that when she rolled her eyes from one face to the other it made that rumbley sound."
"Scares me," whispered Gwendolyn.
"Ump!" he grunted. "Ought to cheer you up. For it's my opinion that her eyes rumble because her head's empty."
"If it was hollow I think I'd know," she answered doubtfully. "You see she's been my nurse a long time. But—would it help?"
"Find out," he advised. "And if it's a fact, your mother ought to know."
Boom-er-oom-er-oom!
Gwendolyn, watching, saw two shining spots in Jane's back face grow suddenly small—to the size of glinting pin-points; then disappear. The nurse turned, and came dancing back.
"You'd better let me have that braid, old man," she cried rudely.
"I'll smooth down your saucy tongue," he threatened.
"Tee! hee! hee! hee!" she tittered. "Ha! ha! ha!"
Gwendolyn had heard her laugh before. But it was the first time she had seen her laugh. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces, too. Now, at the same moment, both witnessed an extraordinary thing: As Jane chuckled, she lifted one stout arm so that a black sateen cuff was close to the mouth of the front face. And holding it there, actually laughed in her sleeve!
Laughed in her sleeve—and a great deal more! For with each chuckle, from the top of her red head to her very feet, she grew a trifle more plump!
The little old gentleman warned her with one long finger. "You look out, young lady!" said he. "One of these days you'll laugh on the other side of your face." (Which made Gwendolyn wish that it was not impolite to correct those older than herself; for it was plain that he meant "you'll laugh on your other face.")
Jane put out a tongue-tip at him insolently. Then dancing near, "Come!" she bade Gwendolyn. "Come away with Nurse."
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces made no effort to interpose. But he wagged his head significantly. "It's evident, Miss Jane," said he, "that you've forgotten all about—the Piper."
She came short. And showed herself upset by what he had said, for she did a hop-schottische.
He was not slow to take advantage. "We're sure to see him shortly," he went on. "And when we do—! Because your account with him is adding up terrifically. You're dancing a good deal, you know."
"How can I help that?" demanded Jane. "Ain't I dancin' atten—"
Gwendolyn forgot to listen to the remainder of the sentence. All at once she was a little apprehensive on her own account—remembering how she had danced beside the soda-water, not half an hour before!
"Mr. Man-Who-Makes-Faces," she began timidly, "do you mean the Piper that everybody has to pay?"
"Exactly," replied the little old gentleman. "He's out collecting some pay for me now—from a dishonest fellow who didn't settle for two dozen ears that I boxed and sent him."
At that, Jane began tittering harder than ever (hysterically, this time), holding up her arm as before—and filling out two or three wrinkles in the black sateen! And Gwendolyn, watching closely, saw that while the front face of her nurse was all a-grin, the face on the back of her head wore a nervous expression. (Evidently that front face was not always to be depended upon!)
The little old gentleman also remarked the nervous expression. And followed up the advantage already won. "Now," said he, "perhaps you'll be willing to come along quietly. We're just starting, you understand." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Gwendolyn glanced in the direction he pointed. And saw—for the first time—that a wide, smooth road led away from the Face-Shop, a road as wide and smooth and curving as the Drive. Like the Drive it was well-lighted on either side (but lighted low-down) by a row of tiny electric bulbs with frosted shades, each resembling an incandescent toadstool. (She remembered having once caught a glimpse of something similar in a store-window.) These tiny lamps were set close together on short stems, precisely as white stones of a selected size edged all the paths at Johnnie Blake's. And each gave out a soft light. She did not have to ask about them. She guessed promptly what they were—lights to make plain the way for people's feet: in short, nothing more nor less than footlights!
A few times in her life—so few that she could tell them off on her pink fingers—she had been taken to the theater, Jane accompanying her by right of nurse-maid, Miss Royle by her superior right as judge of all matters that partook of entertainment; Thomas coming also, though apparently for no reason whatever, to grace a rear seat along with the chauffeur. Seated in a box, close to the curved edge of the stage, she had seen the soft glow of the footlights. But for some reason which she could not fathom, the footlights had always been carefully concealed from everyone but the people on the stage. Trying to imagine them without any suggestions from Miss Royle or Jane, she had patterned them after a certain stuffed slipper-cushion that stood on Jane's dressing-table. How different was the reality, and how much more satisfactory!
Jane looked up the road, between the lines of footlights. "You're just startin'," she repeated. "Where?"
"To find her father and mother," answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, stoutly.
At that Jane shook her huge pompadour. "Father and mother!" she cried. "Indeed, you won't! Not while I'm a-takin' care of her." And reaching out, caught Gwendolyn—by a slender wrist.
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seized the other. And the next moment Gwendolyn was unpleasantly reminded of times in the nursery, times when, Miss Royle and Jane disagreeing about her, each pulled at an arm and quarreled. For here was the nurse, tugging one direction to drag her away, and the little old gentleman tugging the other with all his might.
"Slap her hands! Slap her hands!" he shouted excitedly. "It'll start circulation."
Both slapped—so hard that her hands stung. And with the result he sought. For instantly all three began going in circles, around and around, faster and faster and faster.
It was Jane who first let go. She was puffing hard, and the perspiration was standing out upon her forehead. "I'm going to call the Policeman," she threatened shrilly.
"Oh! Oh! Please don't!" Gwendolyn's cry was as shrill. "I don't want him to get me!"
"Call the Policeman then," retorted the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. And to Gwendolyn, soothingly, "Hush! Hush, child!"
Jane danced away—sidewise, as if to keep watch as she went. "Help! Help!" she shouted. "Police! Police!! Poli-i-i-ice!!!"
Gwendolyn was terribly frightened. But she could not run. One wrist was still in the grasp of the little old gentleman. With wildly throbbing heart she watched the road.
"Is he coming?" called the little old gentleman. He, too, was looking up the curving road.
A whistle sounded. It was long-drawn, piercing.
And now Gwendolyn heard movements all about her in the forest—the soft pad, pad of running paws, the hushing sound of wings—as if small live things were fleeing before the sharp call.
Jane hastened back, galloping a polka. "Turn a stone! Turn a stone!" she cried, rumbling her eyes.
Gwendolyn clung to the little old gentleman. "Oh, don't let her!" she plead. "What if—"
"We must."
"Will a pebble-size do?" yelled Jane, excitedly.
"Yes! Yes!" answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "You've seen stones in rings, haven't you? Aren't they pebble-size?"
The nurse stooped, picked up a small stone, and sent it spinning from the end of a thumb.
Faint with fear, Gwendolyn thrust a trembling hand into the patch-pocket and took hold of the lip-case. Then leaning against the little old gentleman, her yellow head half-concealed by the dusty flap of his torn coat, she waited.
CHAPTER X
What she first saw was a face!—straight ahead, at the top of a steep rise, where the wide road narrowed to a point. The face was a man's, and upon it the footlights beat so strongly that each feature was startlingly vivid. But it was not the fact that she saw only a face that set her knees to trembling weakly—nor the fact that the face was fearfully distorted; but because it was upside down!
She stared, feeling herself grow cold, her flesh creep. "Oh, I want to go home!" she gasped.
The face began to move nearer, slowly, inch by inch. And there sounded a hoarse outcry: "Hoo! hoo! Hoo! hoo!"
It was the little old gentleman who reassured her somewhat—by his even voice. "Ah!" said he with something of pride, yet as if to himself. "He realizes that the black eye is a beauty. And I shouldn't wonder if he isn't coming to match it!"
But what temporary confidence she gained, fled when Jane, tettering from side to side, began to threaten in a most terrifying way. "Now, young Miss!" she cried. "Now, you're goin' to be sorry you didn't mind Jane! Oh, I told you he'd git you some fine day!"
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces retorted—what, Gwendolyn did not hear. She was sick with apprehension. "I guess I won't find my father and moth-er now," she whispered miserably.
Then, all at once, she could see more than a face! Silhouetted against the lighted sky was a figure—broad shouldered and belted, with swinging cudgel, and visored cap. It was like those dreaded figures that patroled the Drive—yet how different! For as the Policeman came on, his wild face peered between his coat-tails!—peered between his coat-tails for the reason that he was upside down, and walking on his hands!
"Hoo! hoo! Hoo! hoo!" he clamored again. His coat flopped about his ears. His natural merino socks showed where his trousers fell away from his shoes. His club bumped the side of his head at every stride of his long blue-clad arms.
His identification was complete. For precisely as Thomas had declared, he was heels over head.
"My!" breathed Gwendolyn, so astonished that she almost forgot to be anxious for her own safety. (What a marvelous Land was this—where everything was really as it ought to be!)
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces addressed her, smiling down. "You won't mind if we don't start for a minute or two, will you?" he inquired. "This Officer will probably want to discuss the prices of eyes. You see, I gave him his black one. If he wants another, though, I shall be obliged to ask the Piper to collect."
"Aren't—aren't you afraid of him?" stammered Gwendolyn, in a whisper.
"Afraid?" he echoed, surprised. "Why, no! Are you?"
Somehow, she felt ashamed. "N-n-not very," she faltered.
No sooner did she partly deny her fear than she experienced a most delicious feeling of security! And this feeling grew as she watched the nearing Policeman. For she saw that he was in a mournful state.
It was worry and grief that distorted his face. The dark eyes above the visor (both the black eye and the other one) were streaming with tears, tears which, naturally enough, ran from the four corners of his eyes, down across his forehead, and on into his hair. And it was evident that he had been weeping for a long time, for his cap was full!
And now she realized that the hoarse cries which had filled her with terror were the saddest of complaints!—were not "Hoo! hoo!" but "Boo! hoo!"
"Poor man!" sympathized the little old gentleman, wagging his beard.
Jane, however, with characteristic lack of compassion, hopped about, tee-heeing loudly—and straightening out any number of wrinkles. "Oh, ain't he a sight!" she chortled. She had entirely given over her threatening.
Gwendolyn now felt secure enough. But she did not feel like laughing. She was sober to the point of pitying. For though he looked ridiculous, he was so absolutely helpless, so utterly unhappy.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" he exclaimed as he came on—hand over hand, legs held together, and swaying from side to side rhythmically, like the pendulum of the metronome. "What shall I do! What shall I do!"
"Need any sharpening?" called out the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, brandishing the curved knife. "Is there something wrong?"
"Wrong!" echoed the Policeman dolefully. "I should say so! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" And still weeping copiously, so that his forehead glistened with his tears, he plodded across the border of the Face-Shop.
It was then that Gwendolyn recalled under what circumstances she had seen him last. Only two or three days before, when bound homeward in the limousine, she had spied him loitering beside the walled walk. "What makes his club shine so?" she had asked Jane, whispering. "Eh?" whispered Jane in return; "what else than blood?" The wind was blowing as the automobile swept past him: The breeze lifted the tail of his belted coat. And for one terrifying instant Gwendolyn caught a glimpse of steel!
"And if he don't mean harm to anybody," Jane had added when Gwendolyn turned scared eyes to her, "why does he carry a pistol?"
But there was no need to fear a weapon now. The falling away of his coat-tails had uncovered his trouser-pockets. And as he halted, Gwendolyn saw that his revolver was gone, his pistol-pocket empty.
She took a timid step toward him. "How do you do, Mr. Officer," she said. "Can't you let your feet come down? Then you'd be on your back, and you could get up the right way."
Up came his face between his coat-tails. He stared at her with his new black eye—with the other one, too. (She noted that it was blue.) "But I am up the right way," he answered, "Oh, no! It isn't that! It isn't that!" His hands were encased in white cotton gloves. He rocked himself from one to the other.
"No, it isn't that," agreed the little old gentleman; "but I firmly believe that, you'd feel better if you'd order another eye."
"Another eye!" said the Policeman, bitterly. "Would another eye help me to find him?"
"Oh, I see." The Man-Who-Makes-Faces spoke with some concern. "Then he's flown?"
Gwendolyn, puzzled, glanced from one to the other. "Who is 'he'?" she asked.
The Policeman bumped his head against his night-stick. "The Bird!" he mourned.
At that, Jane hopped up and down in evident delight.
But Gwendolyn fell back, taking up a position beside the little old gentleman. That Bird again! And it was evident that the Policeman thought well of him!
Pity swiftly merged into suspicion.
"I s'pose you mean the Bird that tells people things," she ventured—to be sure that she was not misjudging him.
He wiped his black eye on a coat-tail. "Aye," he answered. "That's the one. And, oh, but he could tell you things!"
Gwendolyn considered the statement. At last, "He's a tattletale!" she charged, and felt her cheeks crimson with sudden anger.
He nodded—so vigorously that some of his tears splashed over the rim of his cap. "That's why the Police can't get along without him," he declared. "And, oh, here I've gone and lost him! And They'll put me off the Force!" (Bump! bump! bump!)
"They?" she questioned. "Do you mean the soda-water They?"
"And They know so much," explained the little old gentleman, "because the Bird tells 'em."
"He tells 'em everything," grumbled the Officer. "They send him around the whole country hunting gossip—when he ought to be working exclusively in the interest of Law and Order."
Law and Order—Gwendolyn wondered who these two were.
"He knows everything I do," asserted the Policeman, "and everything she does—" Here he jerked his head sidewise at Jane.
She retreated, an expression of guilt on that front face.
"And everything you do," he went on, indicating Gwendolyn.
"I know that," she said in an injured tone. "He told Jane I was here."
At that, the Policeman gave himself a quick half-turn. "You've seen him?" he demanded of the nurse.
She shifted from side to side nervously. "It ain't the same one," she protested. "It—"
He interrupted. "You couldn't be mistaken," he declared. "Did he have a bumpy forehead? and a lumpy tail?"
"You don't mean a lump of salt," said Gwendolyn, astonished.
"He does," said the little old gentleman. "And the bumpy forehead is from having to remember so many things."
She heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, I think I'd like that Bird," she said. "And I don't believe he's far. 'Cause when you whistled I heard flying."
"Running and flying," corrected the Policeman; "—running and flying to me." (He said it proudly.) "The squirrels and the robin-redbreasts, and the sparrows, all follow me here from the Park of a night, knowing I protect 'em."
"Oh?" murmured Gwendolyn. "You protect 'em?" She looked sidewise at Jane, reflecting that the nurse had given him quite another character.
"Yes; and I protect old, old people."
"Huh!" snorted the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "You protect old people, eh? Well, how about old organ-grinders?"
"You ought to know," answered the Officer promptly. "I guess you didn't give me that black eye for nothing."
Whereat the little old gentleman suddenly subsided into silence.
"Yes, I protect old people," reiterated the other, "and the blind, of course, and the trees and the flowers and the fountains. Also, the statues. There's the General, for instance. If I didn't watch out, folks would scribble on him with chalk."
Gwendolyn assented. Once more she was beginning to have belief in him.
"Then," he resumed, "I look after the children, so that—"
She started. The children!—he? "But," she interrupted, "Jane's always told me that you grab little boys and girls and carry 'em off." Then, fairly shook at her own boldness.
"I never!" denied Jane, sullenly.
He laughed. "I do carry 'em off. But where?"
"I don't know,"—in a flutter.
"Tell her," urged the little old gentleman.
The Policeman leaned his feet against the bill-board. "I'm the man," said he, "that takes lost little kids to their fathers and mothers."
To their fathers and mothers! Gwendolyn came round upon Jane, lifting accusing eyes, pointing an accusing finger, "So!" she breathed. "You told me he stole 'em! It isn't true!" And she wiggled the finger.
Jane edged away, head on one side "Oh, I was jokin' you," she declared lightly. But—accidentally—- she turned aside her grinning front face and gave the others a glimpse of the back one. And each noted how the square mouth was trembling with anxiety.
"Ah-ha!" exclaimed Gwendolyn, triumphantly. "I'm finding you out!"
The Policeman crossed his feet against the bill-board, taking care not to injure any of the articles there displayed. "Yes, I've taken a lot of lost little kids to their fathers and mothers," he repeated. "And I was just wondering if you—"
She gave him no chance to finish his sentence. In her joy at finding that here was another friend, she ran to him and leaned to smile into his face.
"You'll help me to find my fath-er and moth-er, won't you?" she cried.
"Cer-tainly!"
"We were starting just as you came," said the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.
"Well, let's be off!" His whistle hung by a thin chain from a button-hole of his coat. He swung it to his lips, Toot! Toot! It was a cheery blast.
The next moment, coming, as it were, on the heels of her sudden good fortune, Gwendolyn closed her right hand and found herself possessed of a bag of candy!—red-and-white stick-candy of the variety that she had often seen selling at street corners (out of show-cases that went on wheels). More than once she had longed, and in vain, to stop at one of these show-cases and purchase. Now she suddenly remembered having done so with a high hand. The sticks were striped spirally. Boldly she produced one and fell to sucking it, making more noise with her sucking than ever the strict proprieties of the nursery permitted.
Then, candy in hand, and with the little old gentleman on her right, the Policeman on her left, and Jane trailing behind, doing a one-two-three-and-point, she set forward gayly along the wide, curving road.
CHAPTER XI
As she trotted along, pulling with great relish at a candy-stick, she glanced down at the Policeman every now and then—and glowed with pride. On some few well-remembered occasions her chauffeur had condescended to hold a short conversation with her; had even permitted her to sound the clarion of the limousine, with its bright, piercing tones. All of which had been keenly gratifying. But here she was, actually conversing with an Officer in full uniform! And on terms of perfect equality!
She proffered him the bag of spiral sweets.
He cocked his head side wise at it. "Is that the chewing kind?" he inquired.
"Oh, I'm sorry!"
However, he did not seem in the least disappointed. For he had a mouthful of gum, and this he cracked loudly from time to time—in a way that excited her admiration and envy.
"I've watched you go by our house lots of times," she confided presently, eager to say something cordial.
"Oh?" said he. "It's a beat that does well enough in summer. But in the wintertime I'd rather be Down-Town." Puffing a little,—for though he was upside down and walking on his hands, he had so far made good progress—he halted and rested his feet against the lowest limb of a tree that stood close to the road. Now his cap touched the ground, and his hands were free. With one white-gloved finger he drew three short lines in the packed dirt.
"And you ought to be Down-Town," declared the little old gentleman, halting too. "Because you're a Policeman with a level head."
A level head? Gwendolyn stooped to look. And saw that it was indeed a fact!
"If I hadn't one," answered the Policeman with dignity, "would I be able to stand up comfortably in this remarkable manner?"
"Oh, tee! hee! hee! hee!"
It was the nurse, her sleeve lifted, her blowzy face convulsed. As she laughed, Gwendolyn saw wrinkle after wrinkle in the black sateen taken up—with truly alarming rapidity.
"My!" she exclaimed. "Jane's always been stout. But now—!"
The Policeman was deepening the three short lines in the dirt, making a capital A. "Two streets come together," he said, placing his finger on the point of the letter. "And the block that connects 'em just before they meet, that's the beat for me."
"I hope you'll get it," she said heartily.
"Get it!" he repeated bitterly. "Well, I certainly won't if I don't find that Bird!" And he started forward once more.
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces, trudging alongside, craned to peer ahead, his grizzled beard sticking straight out in front of him. "Now, let me see," he mused in a puzzled way. "Which route, I wonder, had we better take?"
"That depends on where we're going," replied the Policeman, helplessly. "And with the Bird gone, of course I don't know."
"I'll tell you," said the little old gentleman promptly. "First, we must cross the Glass—"
Gwendolyn gave him a quick glance. Surely he meant cross the grass.
"Yes, the Glass; go on," encouraged the Officer.
"—And find him." Those round dark eyes darted a quick glance at Gwendolyn.
Jane, capering at his heels, now interrupted. "Find him!" she taunted. "Gwendolyn'll never find her father if she don't listen to me."
He ignored her. "Next," he went on "we'll steer straight for Robin Hood's Barn."
"Oh!" exclaimed the Policeman "Then we have to go around."
"Everybody has to go around."
Once more Jane broke in. "Gwendolyn," she called, "you'll never find your mother. This precious pair is takin' you the wrong way!"
Gwendolyn paid no heed. Ahead the road divided—to the left in a narrow bridle-path, all loose soil and hoof-prints, and sharp turns; to the right in a level thoroughfare that held a straight course. She touched the little old gentleman's elbow. "Which?" she whispered.
As the parting of the ways was reached, he pointed. And she saw a sign—a sign with an arrow directing travelers to the right. Under the arrow, plainly lettered, were the words: