“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Come quick! It is your suit—and no Frenchman, as I said, but a Prussian, no doubt.”
The grenadier slid quickly from behind the counter and putting her brawny arm out, held the door firmly, so that no escape could be possible.
CHAPTER XIX.
WASTED DYE.
Judy emerged from behind the curtains which divided the family living room from the little shop, the platter of tongue held high. In her cap and apron, she reminded one of a Howard Pyle illustration for some holiday number of a magazine.
“Gee, what a beaut!” exclaimed the taller of the two strangers.
The one with the serge suit dropped it and made a rush for the girl. He had her in his arms, platter of tongue and all, before Mère Tricot could rescue it. But that dame managed to extricate the big dish before any greater damage was done than disarranging the effect of a wreath of autumn leaves.
Hearts that were broken may be mended but platters of smoked tongue must not be dropped on the floor and smashed.
“Oh, Judy gal, Judy gal! Tell me all about it!”