"Oo! Goody!" Then lifting a puzzled face. "But why didn't you turn the tables at first? And why didn't we stay here? My moth-er was here all the time. And—"
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces regarded her solemnly. "Suppose we hadn't gone around," he said. "Just suppose." Before her, in a line, were They, the Doctor, the Policeman, Puffy and the Bird. He indicated them by a nod.
She nodded too, comprehending.
"But now," went on the little old gentleman, "we must all absquatulate." He took her hand.
"Oh, must you?" she asked regretfully. Absquatulate was a big word, but she understood it, having come across it one day in the Dictionary.
"Good-by." He leaned down. And she saw that his round black eyes were clouded, while his square brush-like brows were working with the effort of keeping back his tears. "Good-by!" He stepped back out of the waiting line, turned, and made off slowly, turning the crank of the hand-organ as he went.
Now the voices of They spoke up. "We also bid you good-night," They said politely. "We shall have to go. People must hear about this." And shoulder to shoulder They wheeled and followed the little old gentleman.
"But my Puffy!" said Gwendolyn. "I'd like to keep him. I don't care if he is shabby."
For answer there was a crackling and crashing in the underbrush, as if some heavy-footed animal were lumbering away.
"I think," explained her father, "that he's gone to make some poor little boy very happy."