Before either could answer, and Percy was racking his brains to think of a word to rhyme with scutter-mullions, she had Dorothy by one arm and the Forgetful Poet by the other, shaking them until they couldn’t have spoken had they tried—while the others pressed so close (as Dorothy told Ozma afterwards) it’s a wonder they weren’t smothered on the spot. But at last, weary of shaking them, the wild wash woman flung them down upon a rock. “You’re a disgrace to our mountain!” she panted angrily. “Look at your clothes!” (To be quite truthful Dorothy and the Forgetful Poet were looking shabby and dusty in the extreme.) “Give me his coat! Give me her dress! Snatch off their socks!” screamed the other wash women, making little snatches at the two on the rock. Percy put his arms protectingly around Dorothy and Toto showed all his teeth and began to growl so terribly that even the head of the wash women stepped back. “What are you doing on Monday Mountain?” she demanded indignantly. “Monday Mountain?” gasped Percy Vere. “Did you hear that, Dorothy? We’re on Monday Mountain! Great blueing, black and blueing!” finished Percy, with a groan. “Stop mumbling and speak up!” shouted the wash woman threateningly. “Stop shouting and shut up!” barked Toto unexpectedly. “We’re searching for a Princess,” explained Dorothy, in the surprised silence that followed Toto’s remark. “A Princess! Oh, mother!” Out from the dreadful group sprang a perfectly enormous wash girl. “Tell them, tell them!” She gave the leader of the tribe a playful push. “Oh, mother, may I have him?” “My daughter is a Princess,” announced the wash woman grandly, “Princess of the Tubbies, and as this yellow bird pleases her he may remain.” “And marry me?” exulted the Princess of Monday Mountain, clasping her fat hands in glee. “Marry you!” shouted Percy Vere, springing to his feet. “Never! Absolutely no—domi-no! Dorothy. Dorothy, do you hear what they are saying?” Dorothy did not, for she had both hands over her ears. The shouts and screams of the Tubbies, at Percy’s refusal to marry their Princess, were so shrill and piercing that she thought her head would split with the racket. “To the wash tubs with them!” screamed the Queen furiously. “Wash their faces, wring their necks, hang them up to dry!” And, seizing upon the luckless pair, the wild wash women bore them struggling and kicking to the top of Monday Mountain—Toto dashing after—and the herds of clothes horses that graze on the mountain side scattering in every direction as they passed. CHAPTER 15 The Finding of Fumbo’s Head!