CHAPTER 8
The Man in the Bottle
The firelight lit up the little cottage quite cheerfully and after looking all over and even taking a candle end into the attic, Philador curled up in a big easy chair to await the return of the good witch. "She's probably out visiting a neighbor," decided the little Prince sleepily. The chair was so comfortable, and Philador so drowsy from his long fly through the night air, he soon fell fast asleep and dreamed he had found his royal mother and saved his father's Kingdom. A soft thud in his lap wakened him next morning and starting up in alarm he looked straight into the green eyes of the cat with two tails.
"Well," sniffed the cat, transferring herself to the arm of the chair, "since you are still here you may as well fetch me my breakfast."
"But where's Tattypoo?" cried Philador, rubbing his eyes and trying not to show his astonishment at a two tailed cat.
"Gone!" announced the cat calmly washing her face.
"Gone!" exclaimed the little Prince jumping to his feet in great distress. "Why, where has she gone?"
"Oh, she probably fell down the well," muttered the cat, walking unconcernedly toward the kitchen.
"You don't really mean that she fell down the well?" begged Philador, running distractedly after the unfeeling creature. "Not really?"
"How should I know?" yawned the cat. "The milk is in that chest, boy. Just pour me a full saucer, will you?" Her eyes glittered so cruelly and she sharpened her claws so suggestively on the rug, Philador hastily opened the chest, took out a jug of milk and poured her a full saucer. Then dropping into a kitchen chair he wondered what in Oz to do next. He had counted so entirely on Tattypoo's help that without her he felt utterly lost and bewildered. The witch's cat looked at him curiously from time to time and after she had finished her milk, deigned to speak. "There might be a message on the slate by the stove," she announced stepping daintily through the open door into the forest. Immediately Philador rushed over to the stove. Sure enough, there was a slate hanging on the wall, but there was nothing written on it. With a sigh the little boy was turning away, when the pencil hanging on a cord beside the slate moved upward and began to write on the smooth black surface. Philador's scalp prickled uncomfortably at this odd occurrence, but recovering himself quickly, he leaned forward to read the message.