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.