with pink pasteboard ears, a Jolly Santa Claus, a smoking hot Dinner, a Nice Nurse who rocked a smiling baby, a brown-faced grinning Organ-Man, his organ strapped before him, his Monkey on his shoulder.  There were too many by far for the children to take in all at once, but at the sight of one particular member of the crowd, the children gasped with astonishment; and Peter’s excitement nearly betrayed them.  There, lounging by the side of a mild-faced School-Mistress Person, still smoking his chocolate cigarette, was—­the False Hare!

“Look alive now!” the little man was crying out.  “Who’s next, who’s next?”

“Me, me, me—­take me next, Sandy!” A dozen little voices cried this at one and the same time.  There was a scramble, bursts of laughter, followed by a sharp rebuke from Sandy.  “No, you don’t either.  Stand back, you small fry.  No shoving!”

When Peter had seen and recognized the False Hare he had been so excited that it had been almost impossible for Rudolf and Ann to keep him quiet.  Now, as he watched the scramble and the rush and the fuss the funny crowd was making about the little man, he laughed out so loud that it was too late even to pinch him.  The children’s presence was discovered, and two, tall, silver candlesticks jumped from a satin-lined box and ran to draw them into the middle of the glade.  Sandy, as the little man appeared to be called, paused in his business, turned round, and smiled at the children.

“Now then,” said he, “what are you doing here?  Don’t you know this is my busy night?  Who are you, anyway?  Not on my list, I’ll warrant.  Who’s dreams are you?”

“Nobody’s,” began Rudolf.  “The Corn-cob Queen sent us to see if you could tell us any way to get back to our Aunt Jane—­”

“Nobody’s?” interrupted the little man.  “Did you say you were Nobody’s dreams?  Don’t see him in the N’s.”  And he took a printed list out of his pocket and ran his eye anxiously over it.  “Are you sure—­”

“Please, he means we’re not dreams,” said Ann, stepping forward, “at least we don’t think so.”  She hesitated a second and then added:  “It depends on what happens to them.  Are these all dreams?”

“All perfectly Good Dreams, or my name’s not Sandman,” answered the baggy fellow briskly.  “We don’t handle the Bad Ones here, not us!”

Peter looked interested.  “Where does the Bad Ones live?” he asked.  “I wants to see them.”

The Sandman shook his head at Peter.  “Oh, no, you don’t, little boy,” he said.  “No, you don’t!  Don’t you go meddling in their direction or you’ll get into trouble, take my word for it.  They live way off in the woods and they’re a bad lot.  They’ve got a worse boss than old Sandy!  No, no;—­the good kind are trouble enough for me.  What with the hurry and the flurry and the general mix-up, something a little off color will slip in now and then.  Everybody makes mistakes sometimes!”

As he made this last remark Sandy cast a doubtful look at the False Hare, who grinned and tipped his silk hat to him.