it was Thomas,
limp-eared by now, and perspiring, but faithful to his task.

"The _best_ thing," whispered Gwendolyn, reaching to touch a ragged
sleeve, "would be to get rid of Thomas. Then she--"

The Policeman heard. "Get rid of Thomas?" he repeated. "Easy enough.
_Look on the ground_."

She looked.

"See the h's?"

Sure enough, the road was fairly strewn with the sixth consonant!--both
in small letters and capitals.

"Been dropped," went on the Officer.

She had heard the expression "dropping his h's." Now she understood it.
"Oh, but how'll these help?"

"Show 'em to Thomas!"

She approached the barrel--and pointed down.

Thomas followed her pointing. Instantly his expression became furious.
And one by one his ears stood up alertly. "It's him!" he shouted. "Oh,
wait till I get my hands on him!" Then heaving hard at the barrel, he
raced off along the alphabetical trail.

Gwendolyn was compelled to run to keep up with him. "What's the
trouble?" she asked the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

"A Dictionarial difference," he answered, his dark-skinned face very
grave.

"Oh!" (She resolved to hunt Dictionarial up the moment she was back in
the school-room.)

Thomas was shouting once more from where he labored in the lead. "I'll
murder him!" he threatened. "This time I'll mur-r-der him!"

Murder? That made matters clear! There was only one person against whom
Thomas bore such hot ill-will. "It's the King's English," she panted.

"It's the King's English," agreed the Policeman, _tick-tocking_ in rapid
_tempo_.

She reached again to tug gently at a ragged sleeve. "Do _you_ know him?"
she asked.

The round black eyes of the little old gentleman shone proudly down at
her. "All nice people are well acquainted with the King's English," he
declared--which statement she had often heard in the nursery. Now,
however, it embarrassed her, for she was compelled to admit to herself
that _she_ was not acquainted with the King's English--and he a
personage of such consequence!

The Piper hurried alongside, all his pipes rattling. "Just where are we
goin', anyhow?" he asked petulantly.

"We're going to the Bear's Den," informed the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

"And here's the Zoo now," announced the Policeman.

It was unmistakably the Zoo. Gwendolyn recognized the main entrance. For
above it, in monster letters formed by electric lights, was a sign,
bulbous and blinding--

_Villa Sites Borax Starch Shirts._

"So _this_