"What does that mean?" asked Ojo.

"Don't ask me," replied Scraps. "I say what
comes into my head, but of course I know nothing
of a grocery store or bones without meat or--
very much else."

"No," said the cat; "she's stark, staring,
raving crazy, and her brains can't be pink, for
they don't work properly."

"Bother the brains!" cried Scraps. "Who cares
for 'em, anyhow? Have you noticed how beautiful my
patches are in this sunlight?"

Just then they heard a sound as of footsteps
pattering along the path behind them and all three
turned to see what was coming. To their
astonishment they beheld a small round table
running as fast as its four spindle legs could
carry it, and to the top was screwed fast a
phonograph with a big gold horn.

"Hold on!" shouted the phonograph. "Wait for
me!"

"Goodness me; it's that music thing which the
Crooked Magician scattered the Powder of Life
over," said Ojo.