"I'll tell Ozma; I'll tell everybody!" promised the little button boy, settling his cap determinedly. Then, because he hated to leave Tora looking so sad, he seized him suddenly by the hand. "Why don't you try to get through the gate now?" urged Snip. "Come on, I'll help you!" As he spoke, he kicked open the gate with his heel, stepped out and began to tug at the tailor's coat.
"No use," began the old man. "No use for me to try to get away—"
Before he could finish the sentence Snip had dragged him entirely through. For an instant he stood staring back uncertainly at his little shop with its shabby sign, "The Tired Tailor of Oz." He had printed it to amuse himself one stormy evening. Snatching a piece of chalk from his pocket, while Snip danced up and down with anxiety and impatience, Tora dashed back and scribbled two letters before the second word.
"The Re-Tired Tailor of Oz," said the sign now, and with a long, gusty chuckle, the old man grasped Snip by the hand and ran with all his might toward the Fare-well.
The Blanks were evidently still at breakfast, and Tora and Snip made their way through the deserted streets of Blankenburg without meeting a soul. In a jiffy they came to the Fare-well, both out of breath but happy to be near to freedom.
