"I see. Well, it can do no harm your mentioning the child to him."
"That's what I think! Oh, I do hope the weather will clear by to-morrow!"
Tom had his wish, for the following morning gave promise of a perfect day. The rain clouds had all dispersed during the night, so that the sun rose in a sky of cloudless blue. Directly after breakfast Tom set out, with Tim, to walk to Hatwell Green; his most direct way out of the town was to pass through the Market Square, and ten minutes after he had left home found him there, lingering to look about him.
It was very quiet in the Square this morning. The vans belonging to the menagerie were still covered; but, as Tom strolled around them, he heard various sounds from within, the chattering of monkeys, and the low growls of tigers and lions. Of course, he could not see any of the wild animals, he had not expected that he would; but, on turning his back on the menagerie his attention was attracted by the quaint little figure of a man seated on the top step at the back of a bright green caravan, reading a newspaper, and his eyes sparkled with interest and excitement. "A dwarf!" he exclaimed, under his breath, and stopped to look at him. The dwarf was an elderly man. His big head was quite bald, and his large, rather flat face was covered with wrinkles; he had a snub nose, and an extraordinarily wide mouth. For several minutes he did not notice Tom, so that the boy was able to have a long, steady look at him, during which he decided that he was the ugliest dwarf he had ever seen; but, on turning his newspaper, the dwarf suddenly caught sight of him, and speaking through his nose, inquired: "Hulloa, youngster, what are you doing here?"
"Nothing," answered Tom, confused at being caught staring: "that is, I was only looking at you. I beg your pardon."
"A cat may look at a king," quoted the little man, chuckling; "but a king mayn't look at me—without paying; so you may consider yourself privileged."
"Yes, certainly," agreed Tom, still more confused. "I've no right here, and I'll go at once, and not tell anyone what you're like, or—"
"Oh, stop a minute!" interrupted the dwarf. "You needn't hurry—now you've seen me. That dog yours?" He flicked his thumb and forefinger at 'rim, who jumped up the steps of the caravan and allowed himself to be patted.
"Yes, he's mine," Tom answered; "or, I should say, he belongs to all of us; he's a sort of family dog. I say, you're fond of dogs, aren't you? Tim wouldn't make friends with you if you weren't."
The dwarf smiled, whilst his eyes—bright, dark eyes they were— twinkled. All his wrinkles were kindly ones, Tom noticed, and his smile was eloquent of good humour. "I'm fond of dogs and children," he answered, "more especially of dogs, for their instinct always teaches them to trust me. With children it's different; they're afraid of dwarfs, most of 'em."