“And how to rescue Ozma, and who sent the scroll!” cried Pompa. “Oh, do let me try to open it, Peg!” So Peg handed over Glegg’s Magic Box and as they pounded along the Prince tried to pry it open with his pearl pen knife. “It would save us such a lot of trouble,” he murmured, holding it up and screwing his eye to the keyhole. “Better let it alone,” advised Wag, wiggling his ears nervously. “Suppose you should grow as big for you as I am for me. Suppose you should explode or vanish!” “Vanish!” coughed Kabumpo. “Great Grump! Put it away, Pompa. Wait till we reach Ev and make that wicked little Ruggedo open it for us. Who is this Glegg, anyway?” “A lawless magician, I guess,” said Wag, “or he wouldn’t have owned a box of Mixed Magic. Ozma doesn’t allow anyone to practice magic, you know.” “Why, I’ll bet he was the person who sent the scroll!” exclaimed the Prince suddenly. “Don’t you remember, Kabumpo, it was signed J. G.?” “Not a doubt in the world,” rumbled Kabumpo. “I’ll throw him up a tree when I catch him and Ruggedo, too!” “Oh, please don’t,” begged Peg Amy. “Perhaps they are sorry.” “Not half as sorry as they will be,” wheezed Kabumpo, plowing ahead through the long grass like a big ferryboat under full steam. Wag hopped close behind and Peg kept her eyes fixed upon Pompa’s back. In spite of his scorched head, he seemed to Peg the most delightful Prince imaginable. [Illustration: (unlabelled)] “I’ll brush off his cloak and cut his hair all evenly,” thought Peg. “Then, perhaps Ozma will say _yes_ when he tells her his story and asks for her hand. But I wonder what will become of me,” Peg sighed ever so softly and looked down with distaste at her wooden hands and torn old dress. Nothing very exciting could happen to a shabby Wooden Doll. “Why, I haven’t even any right to be alive,” she reflected sadly. “I’m only meant to be funny. Well, never mind! Perhaps I can help Pompa and maybe that’s why I was brought to life.” This thought, and the gleam of the lovely pearls Kabumpo had given her, so cheered Peg that she began to hum a queer, squeaky little song. The country was growing rougher and more hilly every minute. The sunny farmlands lay far behind them now and as Peg finished her song they came to the edge of a queer, dead-looking forest. The trees were dry and without leaves and there were quantities of stiff bushes and short stunted little trees standing under the taller ones. Peg had an odd feeling that hundreds of eyes were staring out at them but the forest was so dim that she couldn’t be sure. There was not a sound but the crackling of the dead branches under Wag’s and Kabumpo’s feet. “I don’t like this,” choked Wag. “My wocks and hoop soons! What a pleerful chase!”