So he and his brother bravely hurried on through the woods, and soon they came to a place where they could hear the voice more plainly. Then they looked between the bushes, and what should they see but poor Arabella Chick, and a big hand-organ monkey had hold of her, and the monkey was slowly pulling all the feathers from Arabella’s tail.
“Oh, don’t, please!” begged the little chicken girl. “Leave my feathers alone.”
“No, I shan’t!” answered the monkey. “I want the feathers to make a feather duster, to dust off my master’s hand-organ,” and with that he yanked out another handful.
“Oh, will no one help me?” cried poor Arabella, trying to get away. “I’ll lose all my feathers!”
“We must help her,” said Bawly to Bully.
“We surely must,” agreed Bully. “Get all ready, and we’ll shoot our arrows at that monkey, and then we’ll go out with our make-believe guns, and shoot bang-bang-pretend-bullets at him, and then we’ll holler like the wild Indians, and the monkey will be so frightened that he’ll run away.”
Well, they did that. Zip-whizz! went two make-believe arrows at the monkey. One hit him on the nose, and one on the leg, and the pain was real, not make-believe. Then out from the bushes jumped Bully and Bawly, firing their make-believe guns as fast as they could.
Then they yelled like real Indians and when the monkey saw the red and green and yellow and purple and pink and red feathers on the frog Indians and saw their colored-chalk faces he was so frightened that he wiggled his tail, blinked his eyes, clattered his teeth together, and, dropping Arabella Chick, off he scrambled up a tree after a make-believe cocoanut.
“Now, you’re safe!” cried Bully to the chicken girl.
“Yes,” said Bawly, “being Indians was some good after all, even if we didn’t capture any make-believe white people to scalp.”