By this time she had got around again to the toy livery-stable, and she was extremely pleased to find that it had turned into a smart little baronial castle with a turret at each end, and that the ornamental tea-cup was just changing, with a good deal of a flourish, into a small rowboat floating in a little stream that ran by the castle walls.
"Come, that's the finest thing yet!" exclaimed Dorothy, looking at all this with great admiration; "and I wish a brazen knight would come out with a trumpet and blow a blast"—you see, she was quite romantic at times—and she was just admiring the clever way in which the boat was getting rid of the handle of the tea-cup, when the Dancing-Jack suddenly stopped talking, and began scrambling over the roof of the castle. He was extremely pale, and, to Dorothy's alarm, spots of bright colors were coming out all over him, as if he had been made of stained glass, and was being lighted up from the inside.
"I believe I'm going to turn into something," he said, glaring wildly about, and speaking in a very agitated voice.
"Goodness!" exclaimed Dorothy in dismay; "what do you suppose it's going to be?"
"I think—" said the Jack, solemnly,—"I think it's going to be a patchwork quilt," but just as he was finishing this remark a sort of wriggle passed through him, and, to Dorothy's amazement, he turned into a slender Harlequin all made up of spangles and shining triangles.
Now this was all very well, and, of course, much better than turning into a quilt of any sort; but as the Dancing-Jack's last remark went on without stopping, and was taken charge of, so to speak, and finished by the Harlequin, it mixed up the two in a very confusing way. In fact, by the time the remark came to an end, Dorothy didn't really know which of them was talking to her, and, to make matters worse, the Harlequin vanished for a moment, and then reappeared, about one half of his original size, coming out of the door of the castle with an unconcerned air as if he hadn't had anything to do with the affair.
"It's dreadfully confusing," said Dorothy to herself, "not to know which of two persons is talking to you, 'specially when there's really only one of them here"; but she never had a chance to find out anything about the matter, for in the mean time a part of the castle had quietly turned upside down, and was now a little stone bridge with the stream flowing beneath it, and the Harlequin, who was constantly getting smaller and smaller, was standing with one foot in the boat as if he were trying to choose between taking a little excursion on the water and going out of sight altogether.
"Excuse me—but did you say anything?" said Dorothy, feeling quite sure that there was no time to be lost.
"All that I said was 'quilt,'" replied the Harlequin; "I suppose there's no particular harm in that?"
"Oh, dear, no!" said Dorothy, hastily; "only it seems a rather queer way of beginning a conversation, you know."