Tom scratched his head in a puzzled mood. He could not quite grasp the Bellows' meaning.
"What do you think about it, Righty?" he demanded of the Andiron.
"Oh, I don't think anything about it," replied Righty. "I haven't watched poetry much. You see, Lefty and I don't see much of it. People light fires nowadays more with newspapers than with poetry."
"What I've seen burns well," observed the Lefthandiron, "and don't make much ashes to get into your eyes; but, say, Wheezy, if you'll do your blowing about this cloud rather than about your poetry we may get somewhere."
"Very well," said the Bellows; "fasten your hats on tight and turn up your collars. I'm going to give you a regular tornado."
And he was as good as his word, for, expanding himself to the utmost limit, he gave a tremendous wheeze, which nearly blew Tom from his perch, sent his cap flying off into space and smashed the cloud into four separate pieces, one of which, bearing the Poker, floated rapidly off to the north, while the other three sped south, east and west, respectively.
"Hi, there," cried Righty, as he perceived the damage done to their fleecy chariot. "What are you up to? We don't want to be blown to the four corners of the earth. Pull in—pull in, for goodness sake, or we'll never get together again!"
"There's no satisfying you fellows," growled the Bellows. "First I don't blow enough, and then I blow too much."
"Stop growling and haul us back again!" cried the Poker.