Leslie the night before had declared his intention of sending for the police next morning before the police sent for him, and had given a message to the landlord accordingly. But he might have saved his breath.
Nikko was agog. Whether the tale had leaked through the chinks of the Tea House of the Tortoise, whether Wild-cherry-bud had distributed it during her peregrinations in search of the dragon, no one will ever know; the fact remains that the story of Campanula had gone abroad with additions—all sorts of weird and wonderful additions. Half Nikko had seen her borne aloft on the shoulders of Leslie, the other half had heard extraordinary statements concerning her origin; the result was that the whole of Nikko ached inwardly with a great ache of curiosity.
By seven o’clock fifteen Mousmés or maybe twenty, had arrived singly and in couples, not to ask questions, but to borrow things, or to offer the loan of things, or to ask after the health of old mother Ranunculus, the landlady of the “Tortoise.” Incidentally they learned about Campanula.
A juggler had made her on the Nikko road. Out of what, for goodness’ sake? Out of a wild azalea bush!
No!
Yes, assuredly, the Learned One had said so.
And what had become of the juggler? He had vanished in a clap of thunder—turned into a dragon.
Surprising!
And they went off to spread the news.
At half-past eight, or thereabouts, a little man in white, the chief of the Nikko police, arrived. He had come officially, but he also was aching to get to the truth of this marvelous tale.