He paused, and saw a woman leaning over a gate beside him and glaring at him in mingled surprise and terror. She held a broom in her hand, for she had been sweeping the walk. John lifted his hat politely.
"Good morning, madam," said he.
"Why, it's really alive!" gasped the woman.
"Is a live person so very unusual?" asked John, curiously.
"Surely, when he's made of cake!" answered the woman, still staring as if she could not believe her eyes.
"Pardon me; I am not cake, but gingerbread," he answered, in a rather dignified way.
"It's all the same," she answered. "You haven't any right to be alive. There's no excuse for it."
"But how can I help it?" he asked, somewhat puzzled by this remark.
"Oh, I don't suppose it's your fault. But it isn't right, you know. Who made you?"