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“Hold your tongue!” ordered the little old gentleman, crossly.

Jane obeyed. Up came a hand, and she seized the tongue-tip in her front mouth. But since there was a second tongue-tip in that back face, she still continued her babbling: “Don’t ask me to trapse over the hard pavements on my poor tired feet, dearie, just because you take your notions…. Come, I say! Your mother’s nobody, anyhow…. You don’t know what you’re sayin’ or doin’, poor thing! You’re just wanderin’, that’s all—just wanderin’.”

“I’m wandering in the right direction, anyhow,” retorted Gwendolyn, stoutly. And to the little old gentleman, “I’m sorry we’re going this way, though. I’m ‘fraid of Bears,”—for the sign was past now; the four were on the level thoroughfare.

The Policeman seemed not to have remarked her anxiety. “And after the Den, what do we pass?” he questioned.

“The Big Rock,” answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

“Do we have to turn it?” The other spoke with some annoyance. “What’s likely to come out? I suppose it won’t be hiding that Bird.”

“There’s a hollow under the Rock,” said the little old gentleman. “We’ll find something.” His face grew grave.

“And—and after we go by the Big Rock?” ventured Gwendolyn.

The little old gentleman smiled. “Ah, then!” he said, “—then we come to the Pillery!”

“Oh!” She considered the reply. Pillery—it was a word she had never chanced upon in the large Dictionary. Yet she felt she could hardly ask any questions about it. She had asked so many already. “It’s kind of you to answer and answer and answer,” she said aloud. “Nobody else ever did that.”

“Ask anything you want to know,” he returned cordially. “I’ll always give you prompt attention. Though of course, there are some things—” He hesitated.

“Yes?”—eagerly.

“That only fathers and mothers can answer.”

“Oh!”

“Didn’t you know that?” demanded the Policeman, surprised.

“Tee! hee! hee! hee!” snickered Jane. Though she was some few steps in the rear, her difficult breathing could be plainly heard. She had laughed so much into her sleeve, and had grown so stout, that by now not a single wrinkle remained in the black sateen; worse—she was beginning to try every square inch of the cloth sorely. And having danced every foot of the way, she was tiring.

“Oh, fath-er-and-moth-er questions,” said Gwendolyn.

“Precisely,” answered the little old gentleman; “—about my friends, Santa Claus and the Sand-Man, for instance—”

“They’re not friends of Potter’s, I guess. ‘Cause he—”

“—And the fairies, and the gnomes, and the giants; and Mother Goose and her crowd. Of course a nurse or a governess or a teacher of some sort might try to explain. Wouldn’t do any good, though. You wouldn’t understand.”

The Policeman swung his head back and forth, nodding. “That’s the worst,” said he, “of being a Poor—” Here he fell suddenly silent, and spatted the dust with his palms in an embarrassed way.

She understood. “A Poor Little Rich Girl,” she said, “who doesn’t see her fath-er and moth-er.”

“But you will,” he declared determinedly, and forged ahead faster than ever, white hand following white hand.

It was then that Gwendolyn heard the nurse muttering and chortling to herself. “Well, I never!” exclaimed the tongue-tip that was not being held. “If this ain’t a’ automobile road! Why, it’s a fine automobile road! Ha! ha! ha! That makes a difference!“

Gwendolyn was startled. What did Jane mean? What difference? Why so much satisfaction all at once? She wished the others would listen; would take note of the triumphant air. But both were busy, the little old gentleman chattering and pointing ahead, the Policeman straining to keep pace and look where his companion directed.

To lessen her uneasiness, Gwendolyn hunted a second stick of candy. Then sidled in between her two friends. “Oh, please,” she began appealingly, with a glance up and a glance down, “I’m ‘fraid Jane’s going to make us trouble. Can’t we think of some way to get rid of her?”

The Policeman twisted his neck around until he could wink at her with his black eye. “In town,” said he meaningly, “we Policemen have a way.”

“Oh, tell us!” she begged. For the Man-Who-Makes-Faces looked keenly interested.

“Well,” resumed the Officer—and now he halted just long enough to raise a gloved finger to one side of his head with a significant gesture—”when we want to get rid of a person, we put a flea in his ear.”