The last dragon

“OH, there you are,” said Riggy. “I was afraid you had decided not to wait.”

“No, I’m still here,” said Peter, jumping up, “but I haven’t thought of a way yet, have you?”

“No,” replied Riggy, pulling a very long and sad face, “but now I’ve got my own troubles.”

“What’s happened?” asked Peter.

“Mig became very angry with me because I didn’t notice and put his nightcap on wrong side out, and then I got so nervous that I put ice in his hot-water bottle instead of hot water, so after tweaking my nose and boxing my ears he—he sent me away.”

“You mean he doesn’t want you to work for him any more?”

“Yes—I’m discharged,” and Riggy hung his yellow head.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Peter.

“You don’t have to be,” Riggy returned. “I’ve been very unhappy with Mig, so I don’t care, except I’d like to help you free the princess.”

And now an idea popped into Peter’s head, an idea that fairly lifted him off his feet. “Riggy,” cried Peter, “I’m going to take your place.”

“What?” said Riggy, perfectly astonished.

“Mig needs a helper, doesn’t he?”

“He can’t get along without one,” said Riggy. “When he wakes up he’ll be very angry with himself for sending me away.”

“All right—you can have my armor.”

“What?” cried Riggy, eyes popping.

“You can have my armor,” repeated Peter.

“Oh, can I?” said Riggy, his blue eyes dancing, “Oh, can I, really?”

“Yes, because I don’t want Mig to know I’m the same boy who paid a gold ducat to see the princess,” said Peter, taking off his helmet.

Riggy grinned and wrinkled his nose. “I see,—you’re going to fool him, is that it?”

“I’m going to try to fool him, but you can’t have my sword,” Peter said, as Riggy reached for it.

With Riggy’s help, Peter was soon out of his armor and stood beneath the tree in his white night gown. “Now, give me your clothes,” he said, and Riggy did so, gladly. They far from fitted Peter, the patched and yellow doublet and hose, and Riggy had a hard time getting into Peter’s armor, but finally both boys were dressed again and Riggy strutted about as proud as old Punch himself. “I’m going right off, this minute, and do a noble deed,” he shouted. “All my life I’ve wanted to do a noble deed.”

“Well, there’s lots of them to be done around here,” said Peter, “but you better find yourself a sword first.”

“I’m going to, right straight off,” chortled Riggy. “I know a sword-maker who’ll make me a beautiful one.”

“Here’s a golden ducat, maybe he’ll want some pay,” said Peter, giving him one of the coins he had received for dancing in the square.

“Oh, thanks, Sir Knight,” Riggy said, blinking back tears. “Don’t you want me to stay and help you? Mig is a terrible little man.”

“No. You go along and do a noble deed,” Peter replied. “I think I can get on very well by myself.”

“Well, then be careful,” Riggy warned, and after shaking hands with Peter and wishing him all sorts of good luck and thanking him again and again, the funny fellow ran away to find the shop of the sword-maker, and Peter walked up the little street to the tent of Mig the magician.

There was a sign on the tent which said, “Keep out—Mig is asleep,” but Peter paid no attention to it and walked in. There was the wicked little Mig sound asleep under a yellow blanket, his head, in a blue nightcap with a red tassel, resting on a hot-water bottle. His whiskers, in two braids, were outside of the covers, and his tiny eyes were tightly shut and his mouth was open. He was sleeping on top of the two big boxes with the gold locks, but Peter could not tell, for the life of him, which box contained the princess and which box contained poor Dallahan, they looked so much alike.

As he stood waiting for Mig to wake up, he heard a low groan come from one of the boxes and then a sweet, high voice singing a sad little ballad.

And as the song finished, the little magician woke up and called loudly, “Riggy! Riggy, come here or I’ll box your ears and tweak your nose!” And then he remembered what he had done and said, “Oh, Dingle Berry Pie, what a fool am I! If I didn’t send that stupid boy away! Now what am I going to do?”

Peter stepped up and said, hiding his sword behind his back, “I’m at your service, sir.”

Mig stared, his whiskers standing out straight with surprise, “Who—who are you?” he demanded.

“I—I was standing close by when you told Riggy to go and—and so I thought—”

“You thought you’d like his place, did you?” said Mig, taking the very words out of Peter’s mouth. “What’s your name?”

“R-Robin,” said Peter, surprised at himself for saying that. He must have been thinking of that bird, the one in the new brown and red coat that said hello to him when he lay under the white berry tree.

“Robin what?”

“Just plain Robin.”

“Humph!” said the magician, and then he walked up and down in his night gown. “Haven’t you a family?”

“N-not here, sir.”

“Where are they?”

“Oh, way, way ahead, sir.”

“How far ahead?”

“As far ahead as you can go from here.”

“Well, that’s all right. They won’t bother then. Can you tell the difference between a camel and another camel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How?”

“Well, some camels have one hump and some have two, if that’s what you mean.”

The magician paused and looked Peter up and down. “I don’t,” he said, “but I get the point. I’ll hire you. Now, fetch me my clothes and I’ll dress myself, with your help, because it’s time for us to be going.”

Peter fetched him his doublet and hose and his moldy green cloak and his red pointed shoes.

After he was dressed, Mig said, “We’re going on to Giggletown from here. Lots of wee children live in Giggletown and they’ll pay gold moneys to see a princess with silver toes. Ahhh”—And he rubbed his hands together again with their sandpapery sound.

“How far is Giggletown?” Peter asked.

“Oh, just over the hills and faraway,” Mig replied, vaguely. “Don’t ask foolish questions. Now, get busy. The moon will be up before we can count ten.”

Peter never worked harder in his life. He took down the scarlet tent and rolled it up, poles and all, and when that was done, there appeared from out of nowhere a blue cart with red wheels drawn by a milk-white donkey with a pair of very, very long pink ears and the most disgusted expression.

“Load her up,” ordered Mig, but Peter could not manage the boxes by himself, so Mig helped him, and also assisted with the round sacks that were very heavy and clinked with the clink of gold.

After everything was on the cart, Mig climbed up to the front seat and took the reins in his hands and clucked, clucked with his tongue to the disgusted white donkey.

“Jump on the back,” screamed Mig to Peter, “or I’ll tweak your nose and box your ears,” so Peter scrambled up among the boxes and sacks of gold, and the donkey started off, still looking disgusted. And up came the moon, looking like a round gold ducat itself, and bats began to fly.