cried the Patchwork Girl. “In a minute I’ll have to cook, sweep, dust, scrub and make beds. Why, an extra hand will be wonderful. Send for it, Peter. Send for it right way. You’re a slave too, remember.”
“I was thinking it might unlock the doors and help us escape,” mused the little boy, wrinkling up his brows. “Could you read the markings on the emerald?”
“No,” admitted Scraps, handing back the stone, “but keep it safely, Peter. You never know when or where magic will work in this country and we need all the magic we can find to get to the Emerald City before Ruggedo.”
“I wonder where he is now?” worried Peter. “Zamagoochie was the country Kuma’s father came from, but I wonder where it is and whether Rug is still there or whether he has reached the Emerald City and turned Ozma to a canary?”
“Stop! Stop!” begged Scraps. “Let’s stop worrying and try to think. If we send for Kuma’s hand now, when all the Quilties are working in the fields, we will soon be captured, even if we escape from the castle. We’ll have to wait till night,” sighed the Patchwork Girl, “though how I’m going to stand another day here I don’t see!”
“Never mind,” said Peter sympathetically, “I’ll help.”
“I’ll help, too!” volunteered Grumpy, rolling over on his side and yawning tremendously. “It won’t be as bad as growling all the time and that’s how I helped Cross Patch!”
“Sh-hh!” warned Scraps, “Here they come! Look out for the Scissor Bird, Peter, he’s dreadfully careless with his bill.” Thrusting Kuma’s note into his pocket and assuming as defiant an attitude as he well could, Peter waited for the door to open, which it presently did. In came Scrapper, the Scissor Bird on his shoulder and Piecer staggering under a great pile of coats and other garments that had been sent in to be mended.
“Good morning, Slave!” Scrapper bowed stiffly to Peter and then to Scraps. “Kindly prepare breakfast, at once!”
“Oh scrapple!” scolded the Patchwork Girl.