"Oh!"
Again the Policeman and the Man-Who-Makes-Faces exchanged a significant glance.
"You see," went on the Piper, "in the City everybody's in debt. Well, I have to have my money, don't I? So I dunned 'em all good. But maybe—er—a speck too much. So—"
"Oh, dear!" breathed Gwendolyn
"Of course, I've never been what you might call popular. Who would be—if everybody owed him money."
"Huh!" snorted the Policeman.
"You overcharge," asserted the little old gentleman.
Gwendolyn hastened to forestall any heated reply from the Piper. "You don't think your pig had anything to do with it?" she suggested considerately. "'Cause do—do nice people like pigs?"
"The pig was never in sight," asserted the Piper. "Guess that's one reason why I can't sell him. What people don't see they don't want to buy—even when it's covered up stylish." (Here he regarded the poke with an expression of entire satisfaction.)
The little company was well on its way by now—though Gwendolyn could not recall the moment of starting. The Piper had not waited to be invited, but strolled along with the others, his birch-stemmed tobacco-pipe in a corner of his mouth, his hands in his pockets, and the pig-poke a-swing at his elbow.