“And must Tatters go out into Oz with only this to protect him from danger?” wailed Mrs Sew-and-Sew, beginning to sneeze again. “No!” declared Grampa, stamping his good foot. “I myself will accompany him!” “Oh, Grampa!” cried the Prince, who was too young to realize the dangers of head hunting or the hardships of fortune finding, “may we start at once?” “Hush!” mumbled Pudge, holding up his finger, “I am thinking.” Blowing out his cheeks, he stood perfectly quiet for about as long as it would take to count ten. “To-morrow morning will be the time to start,” said the old Wise Man. “Let us return to the King.” Sobering a bit at the thought of his unfortunate father, Prince Tatters followed them down stairs, but every now and then he gave a little hop, for the idea of setting out upon such an adventure thrilled him tremendously. When they reached the throne room, Fumbo was leaning quietly against the post. He had evidently become more used to the loss of his head and was busily twiddling his thumbs. “If we could just get him a false head till we find his own,” sighed Grampa, thumping the King affectionately on the back, “he would look more natural. Ah, I have it!” Plunging out into the wet garden, the old soldier plucked a huge cabbage and hurrying back set it upon the King’s shoulders. But no sooner had he done so than Fumbo broke the cord tying him to the pillar, rushed to the kitchen and tried to climb into the soup pot! Indeed, Mrs Sew-and-Sew snatched off his cabbage head just in time to save him from this further calamity. Panting a little from the exertion and surprise they all sat down to think again. But by this time the news had spread into the village, and the twenty-four rustic laborers, the Miller, and the Baker and the Redsmith came hurrying to the castle to offer their services. They were subjects to be proud of, let me tell you, though a little odd looking in their patched and many colored garments. They listened in respectful silence while Grampa told all he knew of the strange plight of King Fumbo. “I will make the King an iron head,” volunteered the Redsmith eagerly. He had a forge next to the mill and did all the iron work in Ragbad. “No, no!” protested Grampa. “Iron is too hard. Do you want Mrs Sew-and-Sew to break her knuckles?” he finished indignantly, then dodged behind a pillar, because it was not generally known that Mrs Sew-and-Sew boxed the King’s ears every morning. “I will make the King a new bun—er—head,” puffed the Baker, stepping forward importantly, “a head as good as his own!”