“Abrog and Gorba!” shrieked Percy Vere, bounding to his feet. The poet instantly broke into verse in his customary style:
“Abrog and Gorba are one and the same—
A prophet and wizard wrapped up in one—one—one?”
“Name!” finished Peer Haps, almost tumbling from his throne.
“This is the most exciting story I ever was in,” wheezed the head of Fumbo, from its place on the table. The Prophet had fairly crumpled up at Dorothy’s discovery and, seeing that further resistance was useless, he whined out the whole of his story. Determined to save Pretty Good from the monster and marry her himself, he had decided to change her to mud. For a Princess as ugly as mud, even a monster would not marry, explained the old villain tearfully. So for this purpose he had carried her to the hidden garden, where all his magic appliances were kept. But so sweet, lovely and good was the little Princess of Perhaps City, that the evil spell of the wizard, instead of changing her to a muddy image as Abrog intended, had turned her into a bewitching little flower fairy. Disappointed at the way his magic had worked, Abrog had nevertheless resolved to keep her under the spell until after the day of the prophecy and then change her back to her own self and marry her at once. But when he returned to the garden he found her gone and he had hurried as fast as he could back to Perhaps City. How he had been robbed of his magic medicine on the first day he bewitched Urtha, and how Urtha herself had been released by Tatters and Grampa, we know.
“But what about this monster?” panted the old soldier, as Abrog finished speaking and began uncomfortably shuffling his feet on the golden floor.
“Let me see that prophecy,” demanded Dorothy. The unwilling Prophet drew the crumpled parchment from his sleeve.
“A youth, wrapped in the skin of an old bear—a youth with two heads upon his shoulders and carrying a red umbrella—will marry the Princess of Perhaps City,” read Dorothy in some surprise.
“Why, that’s Tatters!” cried the little girl in delight.
“Of course it is,” declared Grampa. “Why, there isn’t any monster at all. Whoever said there was?” He stared around triumphantly and Peer Haps pointed angrily at the old Prophet, who was hopping about in a vain attempt to escape.
“What shall we do to him?” asked the Forgetful Poet, seizing Abrog by the collar and holding him, kicking and struggling, in the air. Some said this and some said that, but it was Grampa, running his finger quickly down the trusty green label, who finally decided the matter. For listed under sorcery he found a sure cure for Abrog.