“Too late to hunt for them to-day,” chuckled Grampa and indeed, while they had been talking, the sun had dropped down behind the daisy splashed hill, leaving the world bathed in a pleasant dusk. “We’re all tired, so we’ll have supper and make camp here,” decided Grampa sensibly. “Then to-morrow we’ll start after that prophet with gun, musket, sword and bootleather!” “That’s the talk!” cried Percy Vere, jumping up to help Tatters gather wood for a fire. With such good company, the last of the bear steaks from Isa Poso and the berries gathered by little Urtha tasted better than a feast, and nothing could have exceeded the jollity of that evening ’round Grampa’s camp fire. Between the Forgetful Poet’s verse and the old soldier’s jokes, they were simply convulsed and finally, when they had talked over their adventures to heart’s content, Dorothy, Tatters, the Forgetful Poet and Urtha settled down to a quiet game of scrum. Soon the only sound to be heard was the click of the checkers on Grampa’s game leg and the loud snores of Fumbo’s head, which hung from a branch of the tulip tree in the pink knitting bag of Maribella, the little sky shepherdess. CHAPTER 18 The Mischievous Play Fellows Bright and early next morning Grampa lined up his little army and, after a short council, they determined to continue their march to the Emerald City and learn from Ozma’s magic picture just where Abrog and the lost Princess of Perhaps City were to be found. Although breakfast had been a light affair of water and berries, they were all in excellent spirits and, with Grampa’s drum beating out a lively march, they stepped merrily down the shady Winkie Lane. Grampa and the Forgetful Poet led off, Dorothy and the Prince of Ragbad followed, the Prince carrying his father’s head and his red umbrella. Urtha danced in and out to suit her own sweet fancy, Bill flew ahead and Toto trotted contentedly behind. “Here I go by the name of Bill!” crowed the weather cock exultantly. “By the name of B-hill!” Grampa winked at Percy Vere and Percy Vere winked back. “Isn’t he ridiculish?” whispered the Forgetful Poet merrily. “But then, we’re all ridiculish in spots.” His eyes rested a moment on Grampa’s game leg. “Yes,” continued Percy Vere, with a droll nod, “everything, when you come to think of it, is simply sinoobious. Why do we call ourselves an army, pray, when we might just as well call ourselves a footy? Have we not as many feet as arms? Why do we say ‘Good-day’ on a rainy morning and—” “One thing at a time, one thing at a time!” objected the old soldier testily. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll strain your brain, young man?” “I think and think both late and early, For thinking makes the brain grow curly!” chuckled the irrepressible poet, at which Grampa beat such a tattoo upon his drum that the next verses were quite drowned out. But as soon as Grampa stopped drumming, Percy burst out again: