Her dress was gingham! an adorable plaid with long sleeves, and a patch-pocket low down on the right side! "You darling!" she exclaimed happily, and thrust a hand into the pocket. "I guess They made it!" Next she looked down at her feet and could scarcely believe! She had on no stockings! She did not even have on slippers. She was barefoot!
She glanced down at herself. Under her pink chin was the lace and ribbon of a night-dress. She could not remember being put to bed could not even recall coming up in the bronze cage. And was the plaid gingham with the patch-pocket now hanging in the wardrobe?
"That's exactly what I thought!" she declared. She began to walk up and down, one hand in the patch-pocket to make sure it was really there. For this was all too good to be true. Here, in this Land so new to her, and so wonderful, were things about which she had pondered, and puzzled, and asked questions the tongues, for instance, and the lime-lights, and the soda-water.
Oh, I know it was unintentional! You were so little. But I can't spare any more." Down into the patch-pocket went her hand. Out came the lip-case. She thrust it into his furry grasp. "Keep this," she bade, "till I come back. I'll go for the Doctor." The Man-Who-Makes-Faces leaned down. "Fly!" he urged. At that, Jane began to circle once more. "Lovie," she hummed, "don't you go!
Daggett Oh, Jeff, this is our good friend Milt Daggett, who has helped us along the road." Jeff's lucid rimless spectacles stared at Milt's wind-reddened eyes; his jaunty patch-pocket outing clothes sniffed at Milt's sweater; his even voice followed Milt's grunt of surprise with a curt "Ah. Mr. Daggett." "Pleased meet you," faltered Milt.
"The Pip-Piper!" he protested, stammering, and beginning to back away. At that, Gwendolyn felt renewed anxiety. "The Piper!" she faltered. "Oh, I'll have to settle with him." And thrust a searching hand into the patch-pocket. The Policeman kept on retreating. "I don't want to see him," he declared. "He made me pay too dear for my whistle." And he bumped his head against his night-stick.
It was a new one, of cream-white wool; and on a sleeve, as well as on the corners of the sailor collar and the tips of the broad tie, scarlet anchors were embroidered. Gwendolyn smiled. But it was not the anchors that charmed forth the smile. It was a pocket, set like a shield on the blouse an adorable patch-pocket! "Oh!" she cried; "did They make me that pocket? Jane, how sweet!"
The nurse stooped, picked up a small stone, and sent it spinning from the end of a thumb. Faint with fear, Gwendolyn thrust a trembling hand into the patch-pocket and took hold of the lip-case. Then leaning against the little old gentleman, her yellow head half-concealed by the dusty flap of his torn coat, she waited.