"And," continued the mannikin, "you must not look for anything further from that Robinetta."
He laid his hands upon Johannes' shoulders, and chattered close to his ear. "That child thought you just as much a fool as the others did. Did you not see that she stayed in the corner, and said not a word when they all laughed at you? She is no better than the others. She thought you a nice little boy, and she played with you—just as she would have played with a May-bug. She cannot have cared about your going away. And she knows nothing about that book. But I do—I know where it is, and I will help you find it. I know nearly everything."
And Johannes began to believe him.
"Are you going with me? Will you search for it with me?"
"I am so tired," said Johannes. "Let me go to sleep somewhere."
"I care nothing for sleep," said Pluizer. "I am too lively for that. A person ought always to be looking and thinking. But I will leave you in peace for a little while—till morning comes."
Then he put on the friendliest face he could. Johannes looked straight into the glittering little eyes until he could see nothing else. His head grew heavy—he leaned against the mossy slope. The little eyes seemed to get farther and farther away until they were shining stars in the darkening sky. He thought he heard the sound of distant voices, as if the earth were moving away from him—and then he ceased to think at all.
[1] Pluizer = Shredder.