The strain of listening for the names and calling out “I don’t know you!” when they didn’t, and saying nothing when they did, became almost unbearable. It was like that horrid game with the corners of the handkerchief, “Hold fast” and “Let loose,” and you have to remember to do the opposite. Sooner or later an accident is bound to happen, and the children felt a growing conviction that it would be sooner. “What will happen if they do get in?” Cathay asked a neighboring Porpoise. “Can’t say, miss, I’m sure,” it answered. “But what will you do?” “Obstruct them in the execution of our duty,” it answered. “You see, miss, they can’t kill; they can only stupefy, and they can’t stupefy us, ’cause why? We’re that stupid already we can’t hold no more. That’s why they trust us to defend the golden gate,” it added proudly. The babel of voices outside grew louder and thicker, and the task of knowing when to say “I don’t know you,” and so wound the vanity of the invaders, grew more and more difficult. At last the disaster, foreseen for some time, with a growing plainness, came upon them. “I am the Great Seal,” said a thick, furry voice. “I don’t know you,” cried Cathay. “You do—he’s in history. James the Second dropped him in the Thames,” said Francis. “Yes, you’ve done it again.” “Shut up,” said Bernard. The last two remarks were made in a deep silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of the Porpoises. The voices behind the golden gate had died down and ceased. The Porpoises massed their heavy bulk close to the door. “Remember the Porpoises,” said Francis. “Don’t forget to hold on to a Porpoise.” Four of these amiable if unintellectual creatures drew away from their companions, and one came to the side of each child. Every eye was fixed on the golden door, and then slowly—very slowly, the door began to open. As it opened it revealed the crowd that stood without—cruel faces, stupid faces, crafty faces, sullen faces, angry faces, not a single face that you ever could wish to see again.