Always Kuma’s hand flashed on ahead, making the way easy, taking down fence bars, opening gates, thrusting aside the branches of trees. Many of the Quilties saw them from the cottage windows, but before they could get down to their doors the strange procession had passed by. Scraps, being magically made and stuffed with cotton, did not tire, but Grumpy and Peter were soon panting with exhaustion. There was a remedy for even this, however. Throwing down the club, Kuma’s arm jerked first one and then the other into the air, carrying them by turns to the very edge of the little Kingdom.
In a small maple grove, several miles from Patch, they stopped to rest. Peter still had hold of Kuma’s hand and would have liked to keep it longer, but gently disengaging itself, it patted him kindly on the shoulder, shook hands with Scraps and was gone. This time it left no note and regretfully they watched it soar over the tree tops and disappear from view.
“Well,” gasped Peter, leaning back against a tree, “we’re out of Patch and where do we go now, Scraps?”
“South by east, and if I’m right,
We’ll reach the capital to-night!”
answered the Patchwork Girl cheerfully.
“Oh, I hope we do,” puffed Peter, taking a long breath. “Come on, let’s start, I’m rested.”
“Do you realize that the Kingdom of Patch will go to pieces in four days without you?” grunted the little bear, pattering along beside Scraps.
“Let it!” cried Scraps, recklessly turning a cartwheel.
“I’ll not be Queen and work all day,