"This is very unkind treatment, I must say,"
whined the phonograph, in an injured tone.
"Everyone seems to hate me, and yet I was intended
to amuse people."

"It isn't you we hate, especially," observed
the Glass Cat; "it's your dreadful music. When
I lived in the same room with you I was much
annoyed by your squeaky horn. It growls and
grumbles and clicks and scratches so it spoils
the music, and your machinery rumbles so that
the racket drowns every tune you attempt."

"That isn't my fault; it's the fault of my
records. I must admit that I haven't a clear
record," answered the machine.

"Just the same, you'll have to go away," said
Ojo.

"Wait a minute," cried Scraps. "This music
thing interests me. I remember to have heard
music when I first came to life, and I would like
to hear it again. What is your name, my poor
abused phonograph?"

"Victor Columbia Edison," it answered.

"Well, I shall call you 'Vic' for short," said