"If we only had some string!" cried the little old gentleman.
"String won't do," said the Policeman. "We need rope."
There was a high wind sweeping the roofs. And as the three began to run about, searching, it fluttered the Policeman's coat-tails, swelled out the Piper's cap, and tugged at the ragged garb of the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.
"Here's a piece of clothes-line!"
The Policeman made the find—catching sight of the line where it dangled from the edge of a roof. The others hastened to join him. And each seized the rope in both hands, the Piper staying at one end of it, the little old gentleman at the opposite, while Gwendolyn and the Policeman posted themselves at proper distances between. Then forward in a row swept all, carrying the rope with them. It was a curious one of its kind—as black as if it had been tarred, thick at the middle, but noticeably thin at one end.
Jane saw their design. "Ba-a-a!" she mocked. "I'm not afraid of you! I'm goin' to turn the Big Rock. Then you'll see!" And she made straight toward the square tower in the distance.
"Oh!" It was the little old gentleman, beard blown sidewise by the wind. "We musn't let her!"
The Piper, in his excitement, jounced the pig so hard that it squealed. "We ought to be able," he panted, "to manage a top."
"Jane!" bellowed the Policeman, galloping hard. "You must not injure that shaft!"
Then Gwendolyn realized that the square tower toward which the nurse was spinning was the Big Rock. And she recognized it as a certain great pillar of pink granite, up and down the sides of which, deep cut by chisels, were written strange words.