“Let me help,” begged Peg Amy, falling off Wag’s back. “Ozma won’t mind a few scratches and what do clothes matter? Anyone would know he was a Prince,” she added, taking Pompa’s cloak and regarding it ruefully.
Pompa smiled at Peg’s earnestness and made her his best bow but Kabumpo still looked anxious. “Everyone’s not so smart as you, Peg,” he sighed gloomily. “But come along. The main thing is to rescue Ozma and after that perhaps she won’t notice your scratches and torn cloak. She’ll think you got them fighting the giant,” he finished more hopefully.
With a few more of Kabumpo’s jeweled pins Peg repaired Pompa’s cloak. Then, after tying up Wag’s ear, which was badly torn, they started off again.
“What worries me,” said Wag, twitching his nose very fast, “what worries me is crossing the Deadly Desert. We’re almost to it, you know.”
“Never cross deserts till you come to ’em,” grunted Kabumpo, with a wink at Peg Amy.
“Oh, all right,” sniffed Wag, “but don’t be gormish. You know how I detest gormishness!”
While Pompa and Peg were laughing over these last remarks a most terrible rumble sounded behind them.
“Now what?” trumpeted Kabumpo, turning about.
“Sheverything’s mixed hup!” gulped Wag, putting back his ears. “Hold on to me, Peg!”
