[VIII.]
THE UNWISEMAN'S FRENCH
The following two days passed very slowly for poor Mollie. It wasn't that she was not interested in the wonders of the historic Tower which she visited and where she saw all the crown jewels, a lot of dungeons and a splendid collection of armor and rare objects connected with English history; nor in the large number of other things to be seen in and about London from Westminster Abbey to Hampton Court and the Thames, but that she was lonesome without the Unwiseman. Both she and Whistlebinkie had approached the carpet-bag wherein the old gentleman lay hidden several times, and had begged him to come out and join them in their wanderings, but he not only wouldn't come out, but would not answer them. Possibly he did not hear when they called him, possibly he was too deeply taken up by his study of French to bother about anything else—whatever it was that caused it, he was as silent as though he were deaf and dumb.
"Less-sopen-thbag," suggested Whistlebinkie. "I-don'-bleeve-hes-sinthera-tall."
"Oh yes he's in there," said Mollie. "I've heard him squeak two or three times."
"Waddeesay?" said Whistlebinkie.
"What?" demanded Mollie, with a slight frown.
"What-did-he-say?" asked Whistlebinkie, more carefully.
"I couldn't quite make out," said Mollie. "Sounded like a little pig squeaking."
"I guess it was-sfrench," observed Whistlebinkie with a broad grin. "Maybe he was saying Wee-wee-wee. That's what little pigs say, and Frenchmen too—I've heard 'em."