“Reuben would be the person for this,” said Francis. “I don’t believe he’s read anything!”
“Well, we haven’t read much,” said Cathay comfortably; “at least, not about nasty people.”
“I wish I hadn’t,” sighed the Princess through the noise of the voices outside the gate. “I know them all. You hear that cold squeak? That’s Mrs. Fairchild. And that short, sharp, barking sound—that’s Aunt Fortune. The sort of growl that goes on all the time is Mr. Murdstone, and that icy voice is Rosamund’s mother—the one who was so hateful about the purple jar.”
“I’m afraid we know some of those,” said Mavis.
“Then be careful not to say you don’t. There are heaps you don’t know—John Knox and Machiavelli and Don Diego and Tippoo Sahib and Sally Brass and—I must go back. If anything should happen, fling your arms round the nearest Porpoise and trust to luck. These Book People can’t kill—they can only stupefy.”
“But how do you know them all?” Mavis asked. “Do they often attack you?”
“No, only when the sky falls. But they always howl outside the gate at the full moon.”
So saying she turned away and disappeared in the crowd of faithful Porpoises.
And outside the noise grew louder and the words more definite.
“I am Mrs. Randolph. Let me in!”