“I bet it’s fun,” Peg grinned.
“I couldn’t have worked it so slick,” I said, “if I hadn’t gotten mixed up in the soot.”
On the way to the hotel I met the Stricker gang.
“How’s Mr. Gallywiggle?” grinned Bid. “Is he still manufacturing beauty soap?”
“I hope so,” I returned quickly, giving the questioner a cold eye. “For you certainly need a pile of it.”
“Mr. Gallywiggle,” he recited, flourishing his hands, “the man who has taken more warts from women’s noses than all of the talking machines in the world. The man who——”
“How did you find out about it?” I cut in.
“Oh,” he laughed, winking at his companions, “I met old fuzzy-wuzzy yesterday when I delivered Miss Prindle’s beauty letter to him at the old mill.”
My eyes went narrowed in sudden suspicion. Then, as quickly, I told myself that I was foolish to let myself be troubled by such thoughts. The [[170]]Strickers might have delivered the letter, but the letter itself was no trick of theirs. It couldn’t be a trick, I concluded. For I had seen the transformed dressmaker with my own eyes.
“Did you know,” grinned Bid, “that Douglas Fairbanks is in town?”