_The pig!_ Gwendolyn's pink mouth opened in amazement. Here was the very pig that she heard _belonged_ in a poke!

The Piper was glowering at Jane, who was rocking gently from side to side, displaying first one face, then the other. "Well, _I_ call that dancing," he declared. And pulling out a small, well-thumbed account-book, jotted down some figures.

Gwendolyn tried to think of something to say--while feeling mistrust toward the Piper, and abhorrence toward the poke and its contents. At last she took refuge in polite inquiry. "When did you come out from town?" she asked.

The Piper grunted rather ill-humoredly (or was it the pig?--she could not be certain), and colored up a little. "I didn't _come_ out," he answered in his surly fashion. Whereupon he fell to fitting a coupling upon the ends of two pipes.

"No?"--inquisitively.

"I--er--got run out."

"Oh!"

Again the Policeman and the Man-Who-Makes-Faces exchanged a significant glance.

"You see," went on the Piper, "in the City everybody's in debt. Well, I have to have my money, don't I? So I dunned 'em all good. But maybe--er--a speck _too_ much. So--"

"Oh, dear!" breathed Gwendolyn

"Of course, I've never been what you might call popular. Who _would_ be--if everybody owed him money."

"Huh!" snorted the Policeman.

"You overcharge," asserted the little old gentleman.

Gwendolyn hastened to forestall any heated reply from the Piper. "You don't think your pig had anything to do with it?" she suggested considerately. "'Cause do--do _nice_ people like pigs?"

"The pig was never in sight," asserted the Piper. "Guess that's one reason why I can't sell him. What people don't see they don't want to buy--even when it's covered up stylish." (Here he regarded the poke with an expression of entire satisfaction.)

The little company was well on its way by now--though Gwendolyn could not recall the moment of starting. The Piper had not waited to be invited, but strolled along with the others, his birch-stemmed tobacco-pipe in a corner of his mouth, his hands in his pockets, and the pig-poke a-swing at his elbow.

Thomas, left to get Jane along as best he could, had managed most ingeniously. The nurse was cylindrical. All he had to do, therefore, was to give her momentum over the smooth windings of the road by an occasional smart shove with both hands.

Which made it clear that the likelihood of losing Jane, of leaving her behind, was lessening with each moment! For now the more the nurse laughed _the easier it would be to get her along_.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Gwendolyn, with a sad shake of her yellow head as Jane came trundling up, both fat arms folded to keep them out of the way.

"If she stopped dancin' where would I come in?" demanded the Piper, resentfully. The pig moved in the poke. He trounced the poor thing irritably.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces now began to speak--in a curious, chanting fashion. "The mode of locomotion adapted by this woman," said he, "rather adds to, then detracts from, her value as a nurse. Think what facilities she has for amusing a child!--on, say, an extensive slope of lawn. And her ability to, see two ways--practically at once--gives her further value. Would _she_ ever let a young charge fall over a cliff?"

The barrel was whopping over and over--noiselessly, except for the faint chatter of Jane's tortoise-shell teeth. Behind it was Thomas, limp-eared by now, and perspiring, but faithful to his task.

"The _best_ thing," whispered Gwendolyn, reaching to touch a ragged sleeve, "would be to get rid of Thomas. Then she--"

The Policeman heard. "Get rid of Thomas?" he repeated. "Easy enough.

_Look on the ground_."

She looked.

"See the h's?"

Sure enough, the road was fairly strewn with the sixth consonant!--both in small letters and capitals.

"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--

_Villa Sites Borax Starch Shirts._

"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."