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!