Gwendolyn’s father walked in silence, his look fixed far ahead.  Trotting at his side, she glanced up at him now and then.  She did not have to dread the coming of Jane, or Miss Royle, or Thomas.  Yet she felt concern—­on the score of keeping beside him; of having ready a remark, gay or entertaining, should he show signs of being bored.

No sooner did the thought occur to her than the Bird was ready with a story.  He fluttered down to the road, hunted a small brush from under his left wing and scrubbed carefully at the feathers covering his crop.  “Now I can make a clean breast of it,” he announced.

“Oh, you’re going to tell us how you got the lump?” asked Gwendolyn, eagerly.

The feathers over his crop were spotless.  He nodded—­and tucked away the scrubbing brush.  “Once upon a time,” he began—­

She dimpled with pleasure.  “I like stories that start that way!” she interrupted.

“Once upon a time,” he repeated, “I was just an ordinary sparrow, hopping about under the kitchen-window of a residence, busily picking up crumbs.  While I was thus employed, the cook in the kitchen happened to spill some salt on the floor.  Being a superstitious creature she promptly threw a lump of it over her shoulder.  Well, the kitchen window was open, and the salt went through it and lit on my tail,” (Here he pointed his beak to where the crystal had been).  “And no sooner did it get firmly settled on my feathers—­”

“The first person that came along could catch you!” cried Gwendolyn, “Jane told me that.”

“Jane?” said the Bird.

“The fat two-faced woman that was my nurse.”

The Bird ruffled his plumage.  “Well, of course she knew the facts,” he admitted “You see, she was the cook.”

“Oh!”

“As long as that lump was on my tail,” resumed the Bird, “anybody could catch me, and send me anywhere.  And nobody ever seemed to want to take the horrid load off—­with salt so cheap.”

“Did you do errands for my fath-er?”

Her father answered.  “Messages and messages and messages,” he murmured wearily. (There was a rustle, as of paper.) “Mostly financial,” He sighed.

“Sometimes my work has eased up a trifle,” went on the Bird, more cheerily; “that’s when They hired Jack Robinson, because he’s so quick.”

“Oh, yes, you worked for They,” said Gwendolyn.  “Please, who are They?  And what do They look like?  And how many are there of ’em?”

Ahead was a bend in the road.  He pointed it out with his bill.  “You know,” said he, “it’s just as good to turn a corner as a stone.  For there They are now!” He gave an important bounce.

She rounded the bend on tiptoe.  But when she caught sight of They, it seemed as if she had seen them many times before.  They were two in number, and wore top hats, and plum-covered coats with black piping.  They were standing in the middle of the road, facing each other.  About their feet fluttered dingy feathers.  And between them was a half-plucked crow, which They were picking.