"I'm afraid waddling won't be at all good for my head," objected Jack, as the Iffin started off with swinging, uneven strides. Peter laughed as Jack continued to protest against waddling, but the Iffin was too busy practising gu--rrs to pay any attention to the Pumpkinhead. "It's funny," it muttered between its teeth. "I can say gu-rr but I can't growl it, and until I can growl, I'm no griffin." "Oh, what do you care," said Peter. "Any old grouch can growl, but not many can fly, swim, waddle and make verses like you do. I'd rather be an Iffin than a griffin, any day." "That's because you never were either," sighed the big monster with a little shake of his head, and quickening his pace he galloped along so swiftly that Peter and Jack had all they could do to hang on. Once out of the valley, the country spread before them, like a gay and enchanting map. Little patches of shadow lay on the velvety hills, small wooded parks dotted the hollows and many castles were visible in the distance. Beyond, a huge range of red mountains lifted their craggy heads to the sky. "We'll stop at the first castle," decided the Iffin, jumping without effort a tall timber fence that enclosed one of the parks. Red deer scattered right and left, as the huge monster rushed by and they were progressing finely when, from the center of the park where the trees were thickest, came a sharp, shrill wail. "Perhaps we'd better try the second castle," panted the Iffin, flattening back his ears: "If that looks like it sounds, I prefer not to look; It's either a Snort or a sort of Gazook." Before Jack could inquire what a Snort or Gazook might be, before the Iffin could even turn, steps came pattering toward them, and out through the trees rushed a tall, trembling old man in a red cloak. "I am a mess! I am a mess! I am a mess!" he croaked, flinging out both arms desperately. "Tut! Tut!" reproved the Iffin, putting up his ears. "If you don't shout it so loud, maybe no one will find you out. Keep it quiet, I beg of you." "I am a mess, I am a mess, a mis-erable mesmerizer," insisted the old man, drawing his hand wearily across his brow and leaning heavily against a tree. "It's against the law to mes, to mes--I mean to mesmerize," said Jack, staring severely at the strange apparition. "Ozma has forbidden the practise of magic in Oz. Don't you know that?" "I know no law but the law of Belfaygor of Bourne," said the old man haughtily. "And who is Belfaygor," inquired Peter, standing up on the Iffin's back to get a better view of this curious person. "Lord of these Lands, and my illustrious Master. Alas! Alas! What have I done! Unhappy him! Unhappy I! Unhappy us. I am a mess! I am a mess! a most mis-erable mesmerizer." Burying his face in his hands, the old man rushed blindly past them, and long after he had gone his piercing groans came echoing back to them. "Now what do you suppose he did do?" asked Peter, settling himself thoughtfully between the Iffin's wings.