ould:

"Well, I'm extremely displeased, and I'm very much ashamed of all of
you."

The Caravan received this reproof with great cheerfulness, especially
the Admiral, who took a look at Dorothy through his spy-glass, and then
said with much satisfaction: "Now we're each being ashamed of by _three_
persons"; but Dorothy very properly took no notice of this remark, and
walked away in a dignified manner.

CHAPTER X

THE SIZING TOWER

As Dorothy walked along, wondering what would happen to her next, she
felt something tugging at her frock, and looking around she saw that it
was the Highlander running along beside her, quite breathless, and
trying very hard to attract her attention. "Oh, it's you, is it?" she
said, stopping short and looking at him pleasantly.

"Yes, it's me," said the Highlander, sitting down on the ground as if he
were very much fatigued. "I've been wanting to speak to you privately
for a very long time."

"What about?" said Dorothy, wondering what was coming now.

"Well," said the Highlander, blushing violently and appearing to be
greatly embarrassed, "you seem to be a very kind-hearted person, and I
wanted to show you some poetry I've written."

"Did you compose it?" said Dorothy, kindly.

"No," said the Highlander; "I only made it up. Would you like to hear
it?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," said Dorothy, as gravely as she could; "I should like
to hear it very much."

"It's called"--said the Highlander, lowering his voice confidentially
and looking cautiously about--"it's called 'The Pickle and the
Policeman';" and, taking a little paper out of his pocket, he began:

"There was a little pickle and his name was John--"

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Dorothy, "I don't think that will do _at all_."

"Suppose I call him _George_?" said the Highlander, gazing reflectively
at his paper. "It's got to be something short, you know."

"But you mustn't call him _anything_," said Dorothy, laughing. "Pickles
don't have any names."

"All right," said the Highlander; and, taking out a pencil, he began
repairing his poetry with great industry. He did a great deal of
writing, and a good deal of rubbing out with his thumb, and finally said
triumphantly:

"There was a little pickle and he hadn't any name!"

"Yes, that will do very nicely," said Dorothy; and the Highlander,
clearing his voice, read off his poetry with a great flourish:

"There was a little pickle and he hadn't any name--
In