Squawmos, the Cookywitch, and Notta as a Fish]
The Squawmos immediately put down her fork, for she was terribly fond of conversation, and she could not very well converse with the Preserves, whose language at best was an indistinct jargon.
"Strangers," wheezed the Squawmos, "since I am to have the pleasure of putting you up I don't mind explaining my little system. In a jar, barring breaks, you will last for years, and needing neither food nor drink will find it quite unnecessary to work. So you see, we put ourselves up here for the same reason most housewives preserve their fruit—to keep from working."
"Put yourselves up to keep from working," gasped Notta. "But I love my work!"
"Then you are very different from most people," observed the Squawmos, looking at the Cowardly Lion with great interest. "But, never mind, you will soon be a perfect Preserve. And this lion—he will look perfectly handsome in a jar. Let me see, shall I put him up in vinegar or preserve him in spices?"
The Cookywitch closed her eyes and Notta, winking warningly at the Cowardly Lion, who was about to spring on the Imperial monster, cautiously moved his hand toward the only button in the Flyaboutabus that the iron spoon had not smashed—the button that said "Up!"
The Prime Preserve saw him and made indistinct gurgles of protest under his lid, but before he could warn the Cookywitch or the Prime Preserva, Notta had pressed the button, and the Flyaboutabus, with a jerk that sent hundreds of the jar-men crashing to the glass pavement and knocked Squawmos head over heels, rose into the air. Snorer made a flying leap and caught it on the wing, so to speak, and in a flash they were hurtling toward the sky.
Notta, jerking off his disguise, frantically felt for all the buttons, but they were hopelessly broken.