The Flamp took down one paw from its desert of face and peered out. Then he sprang to his feet and rubbed his heavy, watery, blue eyes in blank astonishment. Tilsa and Tobene did not move. They stood still, gazing into the Flamp's great, mournful face, now wrinkled up with surprise and excitement.
Then the Flamp spoke—'What?' he said, 'kids? Real kids? Flesh-and-blood kids? Human, rollicking, kind-hearted kids?'
'We are real children,' Tilsa replied at length, 'if that is what you mean, and, oh, we are so glad to have found you! The hedgehog's compass told us to come this way, or we should never have reached you at all.'
'Then you set out intending to find me?' said the Flamp. 'Well, that is a good one. How is it you're not scared, like all the rest of them?'
'I don't know,' said Tilsa. 'I can't think. But we weren't, were we, Toby?'
'No,' said Tobene.
'And what made you come?' the Flamp asked.
'We—we—' Tilsa faltered. 'Well, sir, we thought you wanted sympathy, like Alison did. And so we came to—to try and give you some.'
'And so I do,' the Flamp gasped out. 'And so I do,' and he lifted up his right paw, and brushed it across his eyes. 'You see, it's precious little of it I get. It's very hard, I can assure you, my dears, to be the last of one's race. Why, the land was full of Flamps once, and a fellow need never be in want of company, but now—now they're all dead, all but me, and I'm not long for this life.' The Flamp sighed and dropped a tear, which splashed heavily.
Tilsa felt very sorry. 'Poor—' she began to say, but stopped abruptly. She was intending to say 'Poor Flamp,' but that now seemed to her too familiar; so she altered it to 'Poor gentleman!' although when the word was out, it seemed equally unsuitable.