“I WILL drop them here!” growled the Clerk of the Weather. “They’re not worth carrying further—wretched brats!” And so saying, he dropped them down beside a pyramid—the Pyramid of Gizeh.
“I don’t think they’ll pester me again,” he chuckled. “And when the East Wind finds them littering up his favourite resting place he’ll bury them deep beneath the sand!”
Laughing, he went on his way, and left Coppertop, Tibbs and Kiddiwee lying in the shadow of the Pyramid.
Before long the East Wind came—as was his time-long custom—to rest beside the Pyramid.
He was weary and hot with blowing over the burning desert, and was not in the best of temper. He had just arrived from India, having blown a plague from Shah Land into the Ruby Sea, and he felt that he fully deserved a snooze beside his favourite Pyramid.
But what was this?
Nestling against its base, in the very spot where he himself would sit, he beheld three small forms.
Who had dared to place them there, in his private snuggery?
“Some frivolous breeze has blown this rubbish here!” cried the East Wind, angrily. “But they shall not trouble me long! I will heave up the sand about them and bury them deep—and then sit thereon!”
He had just commenced to blow up the sand into little swirls and eddies, when he was interrupted by a voice saying—