village green, on which children in pretty loose frocks or smocks were playing happily.
Not a tight armhole was to be seen, or even imagined in that happy spot. Matilda swelled herself out and burst three hooks and a bit more of the shoulder seam.
The shops seemed a little queer, Matilda thought. The names somehow did not match the things that were to be sold. For instance, where it said “Elias Groves, Tinsmith,” there were loaves and buns in the window, and the shop that had “Baker” over the door, was full of perambulators—the grocer and the wheelwright seemed to have changed names, or shops, or something—and Miss Skimpling, Dressmaker or Milliner, had her shop window full of pork and sausage meat.
“What a funny, nice place,” said Matilda. “I am glad we took the wrong omnibus.”
A little boy in a yellow smock had come up close to them.
“I beg your pardon,” he said very politely, “but all strangers are brought before the king at once. Please follow me.”
“Well, of all the impudence,” said Pridmore. “Strangers, indeed! And who may you be, I should like to know?”
“I,” said the little boy, bowing very low,
