Chapter Eleven
"Wedding," sniffed Kabumpo. "Why?"
"Well, hardly any of the candles go out of here unless they’re needed for a birthday or a wedding," explained the guard, shifting his big feet. "You're mighty poorly made though. What kind of candles do you call yourselves?"
"Roman," chuckled Kabumpo with a wink. "We roam around," he added ponderously.
"Do all the candles used above ground come from here?" asked Pompa curiously.
"Certainly," replied the guard. "All candles come from Illumi—and they don't like to leave either because as soon as they strike the upper air they shrink down to ordinary cake and candlestick size. Distressing, isn't it?"
"I suppose it must be," smiled Pompadore. "Goodbye!" The guard touched his flame hat and Kabumpo quickened his pace.
"I want air," rumbled the great elephant, panting along as fast as he could go. "I've seen and felt about all I care to see and feel of the Illumi Nation."
"So have I!" The Prince of Pumperdink touched his scorched locks and sighed deeply. "I'm afraid Ozma will never marry me now, and Pumperdink will disappear forever!"
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