In due course he spied the river. At least he thought it was the river. He flew down close and saw a clump of ginger cookies that snapped viciously at him; one had to be careful of ginger snaps. But this verified that it was the With-a-Cookee River, flowing generally north and west.

Maybe he could just fly over it, along its length, until he spied the girls and goblins. No, the jungle overhung it in places and was so dense that he could not see the ground. He would be better off as a fish—a big fierce one with sharp spines, which an allidile wouldn't attack. But first he had to find the river's source, so he didn't miss anything.

He followed it up until it reached a big messy morass. He knew what this was: the Half-Baked Bog, that had not yet ripened into a full-fledged swamp. When it did so, the products that grew along the river would be adult breadfruit and butter, instead of juvenile cookies, and they would have to change its name. He hoped it never grew up!

He came to land where the first trickle of river leaked from the bog. The bog didn't like giving up its water, but the river demanded it, so this was where the issue was fought. Dolph knew that when it rained, the bog sometimes wasn't quick enough to incorporate all the new water, and the river managed to suck more of it away. Sometimes the river got so full of it that it swelled up over its banks. That was the nature of juveniles: they had no restraint. Dolph was sorry he would not be a juvenile much longer.

He assumed his human form for a moment, so as to use his most familiar senses just in case the girls were near here. It would be awful to miss them and swim down the entire length of the river, while they got boiled by the goblins!

"Well, look at this!" a raucous voice screeched. "A bare-bottomed young whippersnapper!"

Dolph whirled, startled. But it was only a harpy, one of the dirty-bodied dirty-mouthed birds of the wilderness. "Get out of here before you poison the water," he said.

"Oh is that so, stink-face!" she screeched, flapping up close. "I have half a mind to poop on you, son of a woman!"

"You have half a mind, period," he retorted, stooping to pick up a stick.

"Are you threatening me, Prince?" she screeched, outraged. "I'll bury you in spit!"

Dolph swung the stick at her, but she flapped out of the way. "Clumsy! Clumsy!" she screeched harpily.

But then something percolated through his mind. She had called him Prince—but he had never identified himself, and certainly his costume did not give anything away other than his masculinity. How did she know?

"Metria!" he exclaimed.

The harpy became the demoness. "Oh, heck, I was just beginning to have fun," she complained.