And, if you will pardon my lack of interest in it, I will say that I don't care." The Tin Woodman was much puzzled by these answers.

His traveling companions had grouped themselves at his back, and had fixed their eyes on the Head and listened to the conversation with much interest, but until now, they had not interrupted because they thought the Tin Woodman had the best right to talk to his own head and renew acquaintance with it.
But now the Tin Soldier remarked: "I wonder if my old head happens to be in any of these cupboards," and he proceeded to open all the cupboard doors.

But no other head was to be found on any of the shelves.
"Oh, well; never mind," said Woot the Wanderer; "I can't imagine what anyone wants of a cast-off head, anyhow." "I can understand the Soldier's interest," asserted Polychrome, dancing around the grimy workshop until her draperies formed a cloud around her dainty form.

"For sentimental reasons a man might like to see his old head once more, just as one likes to revisit an old home." "And then to kiss it good-bye," added the Scarecrow.
"I hope that tin thing won't try to kiss me good-bye!" exclaimed the Tin Woodman's former head.

"And I don't see what right you folks have to disturb my peace and comfort, either." "You belong to me," the Tin Woodman declared.
"I do not!" "You and I are one." "We've been parted," asserted the Head.