"Why I didn't know Pajuka had any gold feathers. How did it fly off by itself? Oh dear, I wish someone would help me find him," wailed the little button boy dismally. "Couldn't you, Mister—Mister—?"
"Just plain Tora," put in the tailor, rubbing his forehead absently. "Well, it's a mighty queer business, Snip. I'd like to help you, but I've all this work to do." The old man waved wearily toward the racks and stacks of unfinished cloaks and waistcoats.
"Do you mean to say you make clothes for them?" Snip jerked his thumb indignantly over his shoulder.
The tailor nodded. "Have to," he added miserably. "Been at it for years and years."
"Do they pay you?" asked the little button boy in surprise.
"Well, they let me live in this house, and they give me plenty to eat. Besides, I can't get away," finished the old man, sinking down on a three-legged stool and letting his head drop heavily in his hands.
"But you're not invisible like they are. How did you happen to come here anyway?"