“The Pumpkin,” gasped Glan, his fat, jolly face pale and his hands trembling.
“Oh, my heart and soul,” cried the old man, his eyes wild with fear, wringing his hands together. “What did I warn you! What did I warn you! I said those lemons meant trouble. Oh, my heart and soul, what shall we do!”
The father and son stared wildly into each other’s eyes for a second.
“What shall we do, Glan? What shall we do?” the old man quavered, shaking from head to foot.
“Where has the Pumpkin gone?” asked Glan, turning to the children.
“We don’t know,” said Molly, frightened at the distress of the two men. “It came through the tree before us, we followed it, and by the time we got through it had disappeared.”
“I must go and spread the alarm. I must go and warn. Oh, my heart and soul!” the old man sobbed, and turning, he stumbled out on to the white road and waddled rapidly up the hill toward the walls of the city, mumbling and chattering and sobbing to himself, the keys at his belt jangling a dismal accompaniment.
“If it’s back, then the country will be Impossible again,” groaned Glan. “It was through the Grey Pumpkin that it became Impossible before. But just tell me quickly—how did it happen? What do you know about the Pumpkin, and where did you first see it?”
The children explained as quickly as they could, while Glan stood nodding his head and glancing every other second over his shoulder at the receding figure of his father.
“I wondered how you discovered the three knocks on the tree,” he muttered. “It can only be done when the moon is full, you know. You didn’t know? I thought you might have discovered it accidentally, when you were playing, p’raps. Somebody from the Impossible World did that before—many years ago. Well, go on.”