“This is no time for improving literature,” hissed the oztrich, starting off at a two legged trot. Peter did not bother to answer, but waved his cap cheerily to the bookman, who still stood uncertainly in the middle of the road. He kept on waving till the bookman became a mere speck in the distance, then, turning about, devoted all his attention to holding on. For nearly an hour Ozwold pelted down the endless road. Then suddenly Scraps clutched him excitedly about the neck.
“Stop!” shouted the Patchwork Girl. “Stop! Stop!”
“What’s the matter?” coughed the oztrich, slackening his speed a trifle.
“Turn out between those pear trees quick,
I see the road of yellow brick,”
cried Scraps, waving one arm joyfully over her head.
“Where does that take us?” inquired Peter, leaning curiously over Scraps’ shoulder.
“To the Emerald City’s golden gate;
Home! Home at last, I can hardly wait!”
sang Scraps, nearly choking the oztrich in her excitement. “Hurry, Ozzy, hurry! Hurry!”