"Help!" screamed Preserva loudly, sticking her head out of the jar. "Help! Help!" Then back went her head and down went the lid, only to have the whole performance repeated the next second. This she kept up at regular intervals until the whole party were simply convulsed. But it would have been wiser had they, instead of laughing, looked behind them, for presently a terrible thump on the back sent all the scales on Notta's disguise to trembling. It was the Imperial Squawmos, followed by all the Preserves in the city. While a dozen ran to calm the agitated Queen, who was still quivering in her jar, the rest surrounded the Flyaboutabus. Most alarming of all, the Imperial Squawmos was not in a jar. She was, in fact, a huge and towering cookywitch with a passion for preserving. And a cookywitch, I don't mind telling you, is next in wizardry to a sorceress. She had put up the inhabitants of the entire city and was the real ruler of the Preserve. "A fish!" shrilled the Cookywitch, prodding Notta with a fork as long as an umbrella. "Ah, what an extreme pleasure. I have canned cats, dogs and people, but never a fish. And a boy," she chucked Bob familiarly under the chin. "Spare the jar and spoil the child," she quoted with a dreadful wink that sent Snorer circling into the air, where he flew uneasily over the heads of his luckless companions. "Off to the preserving kettles with you!" shrilled the Squawmos, and Notta, in real alarm, made a dash toward the buttons to start the bus, but the Cookywitch brought down a heavy iron spoon, that she carried in one hand, and crushed the entire steering gear. The clown, seeing that escape for the time being was impossible, decided to go back to rule two and gain a little time by politeness. "Imperial and Imperious Squawmos," began Notta, speaking somewhat stuffily through the fish head, "why are you so determined to preserve us against our wills, and why have you preserved these others?" [Illustration: SQUAWMOS, THE COOKYWITCH, AND NOTTA AS A FISH] The Squawmos immediately put down her fork, for she was terribly fond of conversation, and she could not very well converse with the Preserves, whose language at best was an indistinct jargon. "Strangers," wheezed the Squawmos, "since I am to have the pleasure of putting you up I don't mind explaining my little system. In a jar, barring breaks, you will last for years, and needing neither food nor drink will find it quite unnecessary to work. So you see, we put ourselves up here for the same reason most housewives preserve their fruit--to keep from working." "Put yourselves up to keep from working," gasped Notta. "But I love my work!" "Then you are very different from most people," observed the Squawmos, looking at the Cowardly Lion with great interest. "But, never mind, you will soon be a perfect Preserve. And this lion--he will look perfectly handsome in a jar. Let me see, shall I put him up in vinegar or preserve him in spices?"