"And if he don't mean harm to anybody," Jane had added when Gwendolyn turned scared eyes to her, "why does he carry a pistol?"
But there was no need to fear a weapon now. The falling away of his coat-tails had uncovered his trouser-pockets. And as he halted, Gwendolyn saw that his revolver was gone, his pistol-pocket empty.
She took a timid step toward him. "How do you do, Mr. Officer," she said. "Can't you let your feet come down? Then you'd be on your back, and you could get up the right way."
Up came his face between his coat-tails. He stared at her with his new black eye—with the other one, too. (She noted that it was blue.) "But I am up the right way," he answered, "Oh, no! It isn't that! It isn't that!" His hands were encased in white cotton gloves. He rocked himself from one to the other.
"No, it isn't that," agreed the little old gentleman; "but I firmly believe that, you'd feel better if you'd order another eye."
"Another eye!" said the Policeman, bitterly. "Would another eye help me to find him?"
"Oh, I see." The Man-Who-Makes-Faces spoke with some concern. "Then he's flown?"
Gwendolyn, puzzled, glanced from one to the other. "Who is 'he'?" she asked.
The Policeman bumped his head against his night-stick. "The Bird!" he mourned.
At that, Jane hopped up and down in evident delight.