Gwendolyn paled. The half-devoured stick of candy slipped from her fingers. "Oh, I don't want to be shut up in the car!" she cried out. "And I won't! I won't! I WON'T!" She scurried behind the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.
The automobile came on. Its polished sides reflected the varied lights of the forest. Its hated windows glistened. One door swung wide, as if yawning for a victim!
The little old gentleman, as he watched it, seemed interested rather than apprehensive. After a moment, "Recollect my speaking of the Piper?" he asked.
"Y-y-yes."
At the mention of the Piper, the Policeman stared up. "The Pip-Piper!" he protested, stammering, and beginning to back away.
At that, Gwendolyn felt renewed anxiety. "The Piper!" she faltered. "Oh, I'll have to settle with him." And thrust a searching hand into the patch-pocket.
The Policeman kept on retreating. "I don't want to see him," he declared. "He made me pay too dear for my whistle." And he bumped his head against his night-stick.
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces hastened to him, and halted him by grasping him about his fast-swaying legs. "You can't run away from the Piper," he reminded. "So—"
Gwendolyn was no longer frightened. In her search for money she had found the gold-mounted leather case. This she now clutched, receiving courage from the stiff upper-lip.
But the Policeman was far from sanguine. Now perspiration and not tears glistened on his forehead. He grasped his club with one shaking hand.