When the physician returned and found his dinner had disappeared, he was dumbfounded.
“What has become of it?” he cried, jumping up and looking under the table. He searched behind the chairs, in the closets, and even in the hall. In each new place he cried out over and over again, “Who took my dinner? Who took my dinner?”
While he was thus occupied Snythergen had an opportunity to eat, but he was in such haste to be done before his tormentor looked out of the window again, that he entirely forgot his table manners and crammed and stuffed his mouth with his twigs. The farmer and his wife had found nothing out of the way upstairs to explain the noise on the roof, and when they returned the little man was still fussing about, looking in the china closet, the napkin and silver drawers, and other absurd places.
“What’s up now?” demanded the farmer, who was getting a bit tired of the tree doctor’s queer ways. The farmer’s wife too was looking on suspiciously. She did not fancy having a stranger poking into her drawers and closets.
The physician tried to explain but they only laughed at him.
“The very idea!” cried the farmer’s wife. “Nobody could come into the room and take your dinner away without your knowing it!”
“Besides, who would want something to eat that bad around here,” said the farmer. “Everybody knows we feed every tramp that comes along!”
The little doctor felt uncomfortable and embarrassed because they laughed at him, and he barely touched the second plate of food the farmer served him. Snythergen was right, he was too excited to eat. Scarcely could he wait until the dinner was over for the farmer to drive him to town to get the band.