“Why, so are we!” cried Dorothy in surprise. “But you needn’t be so impolite.” “She is a Princess, too, and do you mean to stand there and tell me that that young ragbag is a Prince?” Percy Vere stared at Tatters long and earnestly and then, rolling up his eyes murmured feelingly: “A Prince of rags and scraps and patches, And then they talk to _us_ of matches! The Prince of what? The Prince of where He has a bird’s nest in his—er in his—” “Hair,” giggled Dorothy. Poor Tatters blushed to his ears and hurriedly tried to smooth out his hair with his fingers. “Come on!” cried Grampa indignantly. “They’re crazy!” “If you’ll believe he’s a Prince, I’ll believe she’s a princess,” put in a soft voice and Urtha, who had been listening anxiously to the sharp speeches on both sides, danced up to the Forgetful Poet. “That’s fair enough,” agreed Percy Vere, smiling at the little flower fairy: “You believe in us, and we’ll believe in you, And if _you_ say so I’ll believe that six and one are—are—?” “Two,” said Dorothy, “only they’re eight. You mustn’t mind Percy’s forgetting. You see, he is a poet,” she explained hastily. “Let me out! Let me out! What’s all this noise?” Dorothy and the Forgetful Poet exchanged frightened glances and Toto crept back of the tree-trunk with only one ear showing, for the voice certainly had come from a bag on the Prince’s shoulder. “Not a dream, but a night mare!” choked the Forgetful Poet, as the Prince of Ragbad calmly took his father’s head out of the knitting bag and held it up toward them. “Don’t be alarmed,” purred Fumbo in his drowsy voice, as the two clung to one another in a panic. “I’m not alarmed, I’m—I’m petrified!” gasped Percy, looking over his shoulder to see whether the path was clear in case he should desire to run. “It has a crown on,” whispered Dorothy nervously. “It must be a King. I once knew a Princess who had dozens of heads and took them off. Maybe he’s like that.” “You’re speaking of the Princess Languidere, I presume,” drawled Fumbo. Being a great reader, Fumbo was well acquainted with all the celebrities in Oz. “No, my dear, I am not like that; as it happens I have only one head and it blew off, as you can plainly see. This young man you see here is my son and he is carrying my head back to my body. And now you may tell me _your_ story,” commanded the King, smiling graciously. His glance rested curiously on Dorothy. “You are known to me already,” continued the King. “Grampa, this is Princess Dorothy of Oz, and she is even prettier than her pictures, if you will permit me to say so.” “I told you she was a Princess,” crowed the weather cock triumphantly. “Have you a fortune with you, girl?” “The Dorothy who lives in the Emerald City?” gasped Tatters, almost dropping his father’s head. “The Dorothy who discovered Oz?” Dorothy nodded modestly and Grampa, covered with confusion at the memory of his sharp speech, tried to hide behind Tatters.