"Goodness gracious!" The big blue eyes surveyed the speaker with
uncertainty. "Are you one of them, too?"

"One what?"

"Damanarkists. Mr. Leimberg is one. He hates people who live in
palaces and wave wands and have _dee_-licious things to eat. He don't
believe in it. Mr. Ripple says it's because he's a damanarkist and
very dangerous. Mr. Leimberg thinks men like Mr. Ripple ought to be
tarred and feathered. He says he'd take the very last cent a person
had and give it to blood-suckers like that"--and again the red little
hand was waved toward the opposite side of the street. "Mr. Ripple
collects our rent. I guess it does take a lot of money to live in a
palace, but I'd live in one if I could, though I'd try not to be very
particular about rents and things. And I'd have chicken-pie for dinner
every day and hot oysters for supper every night; and I'd ask some
little girls sometimes to come and see me--that is, I think I would.
But maybe I wouldn't. It's right easy to forget in a palace, I guess.
Oh, look--there's somebody else going in! Hurry, mister, or you won't
see!"

Following the child up the flight of stone steps, Van Landing stood at
the top and looked across at the arriving cars, whose occupants were
immediately lost to sight in the tunnel, as his new acquaintance
called it, and then he looked at her.

Very blue and big and wonder-filled were her eyes, and, tense in the
effort to gain the last glimpse of the gorgeously gowned guests, she
stood on tiptoe, leaning forward eagerly, and suddenly Van Landing
picked her up and put her on top of the railing. Holding on to his