and play tunes all I want to."

Ojo was greatly annoyed by this unwelcome addition to their party. At
first he did not know what to say to the newcomer, but a little thought
decided him not to make friends.

"We are traveling on important business," he declared, "and you'll
excuse me if I say we can't be bothered."

"How very impolite!" exclaimed the phonograph.

"I'm sorry; but it's true," said the boy. "You'll have to go somewhere
else."

"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 the Patchwork Girl. "Go
ahead and play something."

"It'll drive you crazy," warned the cat.

"I'm crazy now, according to your statement. Loosen up and reel out the
music, Vic."

"The only record I have with me," explained the phonograph, "is one the
Magician attached just before we had our quarrel. It's a highly
classical composition."

"A what?" inquired Scraps.

"It is classical music, and is considered the best and most puzzling
ever manufactured. You're supposed to like it, whether you do or not,
and if you don't, the proper thing is to look as if you did.
Understand?"

"Not in the least," said Scraps.

"Then, listen!"

At once the machine began to play and in a few minutes Ojo put his hands
to his ears to shut out the sounds and the cat snarled and Scraps began
to laugh.

"Cut it out, Vic," she said. "That's enough."

But the phonograph continued playing the dreary tune, so Ojo seized the
crank, jerked it free and threw it into the road. However, the moment
the crank struck the ground it bounded back to the machine again and
b