“Eyes like apple sauce—heart of butter! Ho-ho, kerrumph!” The Elegant Elephant laughed so hard he shook all over; then slyly reaching over the Prime Pumper’s shoulder, he snatched his glass of pink lemonade and emptied it down his great throat, setting the tumbler back before the old fellow turned his head. “Did you call, Sir?” asked Eejabo, hurrying over. He had mistaken Kabumpo’s laugh for a command. “Yes; why did you not give his Excellency lemonade?” demanded the Elegant Elephant sternly. “I did; he must have drunk it, Sir!” stuttered Eejabo. “Drunk it!” cried the Prime Pumper, pounding on the table indignantly. “I never had any!” “Fetch him a glass at once,” rumbled Kabumpo, waving his trunk, and Eejabo, too wise to argue with a member of the royal family, brought another glass of lemonade. But no sooner had he done so than the mischievous elephant stole that, next the Prime Pumper’s plate and roll, and all so quickly, no one but Prince Pompadore knew what was happening and poor Eejabo was kept running backwards and forwards till his wig stood on end with confusion and rage. All of this was very amusing to the Prince, and helped him to listen pleasantly to the fifteen long birthday speeches addressed to him by members of the Royal Guard. But if the speeches were dull, the dinner was not. The fiddlers fiddled so merrily, and the chief cook Hashem had so outdone himself in the preparation of new and delicious dainties, that by ice-cream-and-cake time everyone was in a high good humor. “The cake, my good Eejabo! Fetch forth the cake!” commanded King Pompus, beaming fondly upon his son. Nervously Eejabo stepped to the side table and lighted the eighteen tall birthday candles. A cake that had disappeared once might easily do so again, and Eejabo was anxious to have it cut and out of the way—out of _his_ way at least. Hashem, looking through a tiny crack in the door, almost burst with pride as his gorgeous pink masterpiece was set down before the Prince. “Many happy returns of your eighteenth birthday!” cried the Courtiers, jumping to their feet and waving their napkins enthusiastically. “Thank you! Thank you!” chuckled Pompadore, bowing low. “I feel that this is but one of many more to come!” Which may sound strange, but Pumperdink being in Oz, one may have as many eighteenth birthdays as one cares to have. This was Pompa’s tenth and while the courtiers drank his health the Prince made ready to blow out the birthday candles. “That’s right, blow ’em all out at once!” cried the King. So Pompa puffed out his cheeks and blew with all his might. But not a candle flickered. Then he tried again. Indeed, he puffed and blew until he was a regular royal purple, but nary a candle flame so much as wavered.