"This door answers itself," said the plate on the seventh and strangest of all the strange doorways.
"No bread, no ice, no milk; and if you're selling brushes you might as well go at once," continued the door sulkily. "We don't need any."
"We're not!" interrupted Notta, in a slightly choked voice. "We just want to get in."
"What for?" asked the door stubbornly. "Is it a door matter? Have you cards of admission?"
"We're hunting Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion," volunteered Bob timidly.
"A likely story," sniffed the door, looking contemptuously from one to the other. "But what could one expect of people with curly ears."
"We have not curly ears," cried Bob, stamping his foot indignantly.
"Don't argue," said the door stiffly. "How's your temper—long or short?" It rolled its wooden knot eyes inquiringly at Notta.
"What's that got to do with our getting in?" asked the clown impatiently.
"Short!" muttered the door triumphantly to itself. "No, you'd better stay out, I think. Her highness is very slammish to-day, and the last time I let strangers in she nearly twisted my knob off. That's the trouble around here—when anything goes wrong, everybody slams the door. Sometimes I almost wish I were a sofa cushion."