“I won’t stop—yes, I will! I’ll go home—no, I won’t!”
Thus his thoughts swung back and forth; and, before he had made up his mind whether to stay or not, he had staid, and the “Finny-castics,” with their horses and mules, were close at hand.
Pollio had seen the same sight the year before, but not so near; oh, not half so near! And weren’t they awful?
They did not look like men, but like all sorts of horrid creatures that you dream of at night, after eating too much supper. Some wore coats and hats; and some wore gowns and bonnets, with paper flowers the size of dinner-plates, and bunches of feathers as big as brooms.
But it was not the dress Pollio minded, so much as the faces. How they did stare at him, and grin at him, those faces!—with mouths wide enough to take him right in, with monstrous noses, puffed cheeks, glaring eyes,—white faces, yellow faces, monkey’s faces, and faces as black as a shoe.
Pollio knew that these were all masks, or what he called “wigs,” and that they were worn by harmless Rosewood boys, who did it only for fun. Pollio knew this well enough. But you can’t always recollect all you know: you hardly ever can when you are taken by surprise. Before he stopped to think, he screamed; but, after he had screamed, he laughed to think how silly it was.
“Poh, nothing but wigs! Glad Posy isn’t here. Guess she’d be scared!”
While he stood trembling and gazing, he saw an object that fairly made his hair stand on end. It was Billy Barstow, with a wolf’s head on his shoulders, and on the head a big ruffled cap. It was the very image of the wolf that ate up Red Riding Hood.
Billy was seated on a frisky colt that wouldn’t walk soberly along with the horses and mules, but danced round and round on one side of the procession. Pollio never thought of being afraid of the colt; but the wolf with the frilled cap on was fearful.
“Rum te dum diddlety dum! Hullo, my little man! Get up here and ride?” cried the wolf, shaking his cap-strings, opening his jaws, and showing his long white teeth.