“What’s pelf?” demanded the wooden man, critically.
“Pelf is—I think it’s something to eat,” explained Alice. “But I didn’t have to say pelf, could have said elf, or delf—”
“Or skjelf!” jeered the wooden man. “Poetic license is a dangerous thing for a girl of thirteen. I shall see that yours is revoked at once.”
Alice began to cry with shame and humiliation.
“There, there,” cried the wooden man, ashamed of himself again. “I was only plaguing you. You rhyme beautifully—much better than I do. Now, let’s go and see P. D.”
“P. D.?” queried Alice, drying her tears. “Who is P. D.?”
“Why the Plausible Donkey, to be sure,” laughed the wooden man. “You said you wanted to see some more animals.”
“Why don’t you call him D. P.?” asked Alice, after a moment, as they walked toward the menagerie.
“Why?” The wooden man seemed suspicious.
“Democratic Party,” giggled Alice; and then stopped as she caught sight of the wooden man’s face, which was contorted with pain. “I beg your pardon,” she added, hastily.