"I told you so!" growled the Fresh-Air Fiend, pulling out the lance hastily. "Tell me, John Dough, are you dead, or are you just dying?"
"Neither one," said John, ruefully pushing together the hole that the lance had made; "but it doesn't add to my personal appearance to be prodded in that fashion. I'm made of gingerbread," he explained, turning to the man in armor.
"I beg your pardon! I really beg your pardon!" said the Blunderer, greatly distressed at what he had done. "I had no intention of hurting you."
"He means well," said the Incubator Baby; "but that doesn't help much."
"He won't last long in this Island," grunted the Bad-Tempered, referring to John Dough.
"Being made of gingerbread, he can't be expected to last," remarked the Disagreeable, smiling in a way that made John shudder.
"He shall have my protection," said the Blunderer. "It's the least I can do to make amends. Here—put on this armour!"
He hastily began stripping off the plates of metal, and placed the steel helmet over the head of the gingerbread man.
"No, no!" exclaimed John. "I don't want to wear all that hardware."