"Yes"—with a whispered gasp—"your Royal Highness."
Susan says she doesn't know just why she addressed the devil in that way, unless she was trying to flatter him and so get round him.
"I'm not so awfully bad," she went on, "if you don't count thinking things too much!"
The right cheek of her otherwise delicately modeled child's face was a swollen lump of purple and green. I dropped down on one knee beside her.
"Why, you poor little lady! You're hurt!"
Instantly she sprang to her feet, wild-eyed.
"No, no! It's not me—it's Pearl! Oh, quick—please! He had a razor!"
"Razor? Who did?" I seized her hands. "I'm Mr. Hunt, dear. Your father often works on my car. Tell me what's wrong!"
She was still half dazed. "I—I can't see why I'm down here—with papa's dinner pail. Pearl was upstairs, and I tried to stop him from going." Then she began to whimper like a whipped puppy. "It's all mixed. I'm scared."
"Of course—of course you are; but it's going to be all right." I led her to the car and lifted her to the front seat. "Hold on a minute, Susan. I'll be back with you in less than no time!"