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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:

Gwendolyn looked her concern. “Do we have to go that road?” she asked him.

He nodded.

The next moment, with a loud rumbling of the eyes, Jane came alongside. “Oh, dearie,” she cried, “you couldn’t hire me to go. And I wouldn’t like to see you go. I think too much of you, I do indeed.”