s
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.

"So it is," returned Bungle, in a grumpy tone of voice; and then, as
the phonograph overtook them, the Glass Cat added sternly: "What are
you doing here, anyhow?"

"I've run away," said the music thing. "After you left, old Dr. Pipt
and I had a dreadful quarrel and he threatened to smash me to pieces if
I didn't keep quiet. Of course I wouldn't do that, because a
talking-machine is supposed to talk and make a noise--and sometimes
music. So I slipped out of the house while the Magician was stirring
his four kettles and I've been running after you all night. Now that
I've found such pleasant company, I can talk 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,