"Now here," said the Wizard, tapping a little door in a curious-looking summer-house—"here is where we keep our tools. They are the funniest tools you ever saw in your life. They do all their own work. I'll introduce you to some of them. Mr. Rake!"
"Well?" came a voice from within. "Well, what's wanted? If you are the gravel path you might as well trot away. I can't smooth you off to-day, and if you are the weed path, I've asked Mr. Hoe to attend to you. I'm having trouble with my teeth."
"It's I—Thumbhi," said the Wizard.
"Oh," came the answer. "Why didn't you say so."
Here the door was opened, and the Rake hopped out.
"Good-morning," he said. "I didn't know it was you or I wouldn't have kept you waiting. Who is your young friend?"
"Jimmieboy," returned the Wizard. "This is his first visit, and I didn't know but what you'd show him how you do your work."
"I'd be very glad to," said the Rake, "but it's impossible this morning. I spent all day yesterday raking the candy field, and it has made my teeth ache like seventy-two—which is twelve more than like sixty; but if he's fond of jokes I can give him a few. Why is a—"
"Well, really," said the Wizard, who knew the Rake's jokes were very bad, and who was therefore anxious to spare Jimmieboy the trouble of hearing them, "we don't like to bother you. We'll run along—"
"No bother, I assure you," said the Rake. "I know it by heart. Why is a trolley-car like a grindstone without any handle?"