FullReads

“Been dropped,” went on the Officer.

She had heard the expression “dropping his h’s.” Now she understood it. “Oh, but how’ll these help?”

“Show ’em to Thomas!”

She approached the barrel—and pointed down.

Thomas followed her pointing. Instantly his expression became furious. And one by one his ears stood up alertly. “It’s him!” he shouted. “Oh, wait till I get my hands on him!” Then heaving hard at the barrel, he raced off along the alphabetical trail.

Gwendolyn was compelled to run to keep up with him. “What’s the trouble?” she asked the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

“A Dictionarial difference,” he answered, his dark-skinned face very grave.

“Oh!” (She resolved to hunt Dictionarial up the moment she was back in the school-room.)

Thomas was shouting once more from where he labored in the lead. “I’ll murder him!” he threatened. “This time I’ll mur-r-der him!”

Murder? That made matters clear! There was only one person against whom Thomas bore such hot ill-will. “It’s the King’s English,” she panted.

“It’s the King’s English,” agreed the Policeman, tick-tocking in rapid tempo.

She reached again to tug gently at a ragged sleeve. “Do you know him?” she asked.

The round black eyes of the little old gentleman shone proudly down at her. “All nice people are well acquainted with the King’s English,” he declared—which statement she had often heard in the nursery. Now, however, it embarrassed her, for she was compelled to admit to herself that she was not acquainted with the King’s English—and he a personage of such consequence!

The Piper hurried alongside, all his pipes rattling. “Just where are we goin’, anyhow?” he asked petulantly.

“We’re going to the Bear’s Den,” informed the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

“And here’s the Zoo now,” announced the Policeman.

It was unmistakably the Zoo. Gwendolyn recognized the main entrance. For above it, in monster letters formed by electric lights, was a sign, bulbous and blinding—

“So this is the Gate you meant!” she called to the Policeman.

The Gate was flung invitingly wide Thomas rushed toward it, his fourteen ears flopping horribly.

“And here he is!” cried the Policeman. “On guard.”

The next moment—”‘Alt!” ordered a harsh voice—a voice with an English accent.

There was a flash of scarlet before Gwendolyn’s face—of scarlet so vivid that it blinded. She flung up a hand. But she was not frightened. She knew what it was. And rubbed at her eyes hastily to clear them.

He stood in full view.

As far as outward appearance was concerned, he was exactly the looking person she had pictured in her own mind—young and tall and lusty, with a florid countenance and hair as blonde as her own. And he wore the uniform of an English soldier—short coat of scarlet, all gold braid and brass buttons; dark trousers with stripes; and a little round cap with a chin strap.

But he carried no cane. Instead, as he stepped forward, nose up, chin up, eyes very bold, he swung a most amazing weapon. It was as scarlet as his own coat, as long as he was tall, and polished to a high degree. But it was not unbending, like a sword: It was limber to whippiness, so that as he twirled it about his blonde head it snapped and whistled. And Gwendolyn remembered having seen others exactly like it hanging on the bill-board at the Face-Shop. For it was a tongue!

“Aw! Mah word!” exclaimed the King’s English, surveying the halted group.

Gwendolyn could not imagine what word he had in mind, but she thought him very fine. With his air of proud self-assurance, and his fine brilliant uniform, he was strikingly like her own red-coated toy! Anxious to make a favorable impression upon him, she smoothed the gingham dress hastily, brushed back straying wisps of yellow, straightened her shoulders, and assumed a cordial expression of countenance.

“How do you do,” she said, curtseying.

He saluted. But blocked the way.

“May we go into the Zoo, please?”

His hand jerked down to his side. “One at a time,” he answered; “—all but Thomas.”

Thomas had come short with the others. Now as Gwendolyn looked at him she saw that he, also, was armed with a tongue—a warped and twisted affair, rough, but thin along its edges.

“If you try to keep me out,” he cried, “I certainly will murder you!”

At this juncture the Policeman pit-patted forward and took his station at the left of the Gate. Next, the King’s English stepped back until he stood at the right. Between them, hand in hand once more, passed Gwendolyn and the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.