The Lost King of Oz

CHAPTER 8

The Mysterious Message

Scraps, the Patch Work Girl, danced crazily down the flower-bordered path in Ozma's lovely garden in the Emerald City, shouting this verse:

"I do not," brayed Hank, Betsy Bobbins' little mule, flapping his ears sulkily. "You don't know what you are singing about, Scraps. Go away and stop jeering me. How could I use a hanky, you silly girl?"

"Hank, you're a crank!" shouted Scraps, and capered on down the path, stopping to chin herself on a tulip tree and dropping in a wobbly heap beside the little table where Ozma, Betsy Bobbin and Trot were having breakfast.

"You shouldn't tease Hank like that," said Ozma, looking reproachfully at Scraps over her gold breakfast cup.

chortled Scraps, and she looked so comical doing both of these crossings at once that the little girls simply burst into laughter, while Hank, with a snort of disgust, galloped off at full speed.

"You're awful," sighed Betsy Bobbin, nearly choking on her biscuit, and Betsy was pretty nearly right, for this ridiculous maiden who lived luxuriously in Ozma's palace was made entirely of patchwork. She had been cut from an old quilt, stuffed and sewn together by a wizard's wife who intended her for a servant. But when the wizard mixed up her brains, a lot of fun and cleverness had got in, so that Scraps had refused to be a servant and had run off to the Emerald City. She was so comical and entertaining that Ozma had allowed her to remain at the capital, and Scraps is now one of the most celebrated characters in the castle.

Betsy Bobbin was a little girl from the United States. She and Hank had been ship-wrecked on the shores of a strange land near Oz and, after some terrible adventures with the old Gnome King, had reached Oz itself and been taken in by the kind-hearted little Queen. Trot also had come from America and liked Oz so well she had never returned home. These two, with Princess Dorothy, are the closest friends of the fairy ruler, for Ozma herself is only a little girl fairy, and these four together have the merriest times imaginable.

Living in a green stone castle studded with emeralds is fun enough, dear knows, but living in a green stone castle with forty-nine courtiers, thirty-nine footmen, thirty-seven handmen, twenty-six serving maids, ten cooks and a flock of pages is luxury indeed, especially in a magical land where adventures are liable to happen every few minutes. Why, it's the most fun yet!

Perhaps Dorothy is Ozma's prime favorite, for Dorothy was the first little girl to discover Oz and has been so mixed up in its magical history that Ozma would scarcely know how to rule her interesting subjects without her help. It was of Dorothy that Ozma was thinking, as she watched Scraps turning reckless handsprings under the tulip trees.

"I wonder when Dorothy will return?" sighed the little Queen, pushing back her chair and signalling for the thirty-ninth footman to remove the gold breakfast plates. Dorothy had gone on a short visit to Perhaps City and already the others were longing for her return.

"Let's ask the Scarecrow," proposed Betsy, waving to the jolly straw man who, arm-in-arm with Sir Hokus of Pokes, was coming down the path. Both these delightful fellows are great friends of Dorothy's. In fact she discovered them. The Scarecrow she had lifted down from a pole on her very first trip to Oz. He had accompanied her to the Emerald City and been given a splendid set of brains by the Wizard of Oz, so that he is one of the wittiest and most able of Ozma's courtiers. He has a cozy corn-ear castle in the Winkie Country, but prefers to spend most of his time in the capital with the girls. Sir Hokus had been rescued from Pokes by Dorothy on another of her wonderful adventures, and since the Knight had taken up his residence in the palace Ozma felt more secure than ever before, for Sir Hokus was a splendid swordsman and feared neither man nor monster. It is people like Scraps, Sir Hokus and the Scarecrow who make life in the Emerald City so jolly and so different.

"Yoo hoo! Don't you think it's time Dorothy was back?" called Betsy, as the two came nearer.

"High time! High time!" answered the Scarecrow, waving his old blue hat up at the clock in the tallest tower of the castle. "And we'll have a high time when she does come," he smiled gaily. "I've thought up a dozen new games and—. What's that?" cried the Scarecrow, interrupting himself suddenly and blinking his painted eyes so fast that Betsy bounded out of her chair.

"What's that?" echoed the little Queen of Oz, springing up in alarm. Something gold and brilliant had flashed through the air and fallen upon the walk.

"A feather!" puffed Sir Hokus. "Odds goblins and hoblins, a feather!" He stooped creakily to pick it up, but as he did the golden quill righted itself and began to move rapidly across the marble walk.

"It's writing!" gasped Trot, clutching the Scarecrow by the arm, and in dazed fascination they watched the feather tracing a sentence. When it had set down five words, it made a little gold dot and fell lifelessly at Ozma's feet.

"Danger! Go to Morrow to-day!" stuttered the Scarecrow, reading the golden message aloud.

"How now," thundered Sir Hokus, letting his visor fall with a crash, "what means this message?"

"Go to-morrow!" gulped the Scarecrow, clapping on his hat and squinting down at the golden legend on the walk.

"Not to-morrow, to-day," corrected Betsy Bobbin breathlessly.

"But if we go to-day, how can we go to-morrow?" asked Ozma, growing more bewildered every minute.

"Danger!" shuddered Trot, pointing a trembling finger at the first word.

"What's all the excitement?" demanded Scraps, dancing up on one toe. Then, seeing they were all staring down at the marble, she bent over and read the message aloud herself.

screamed the Patch Work Girl, clapping her hand to her cotton forehead.

"Hush, Scraps!" begged Ozma. "This is serious!"

"Someone is delirious, or they'd never write such nonsense," declared Scraps defiantly. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Think!" mumbled the Scarecrow, dropping down on a gold garden bench.

"Send for the Wizard!" advised Betsy Bobbin, jumping up and down in her excitement. "Wait! I'll get him!"

"It's a goose quill," announced Sir Hokus, as Betsy ran off toward the palace. He had picked up the golden feather and was examining it carefully.

"A goose quill?" gasped Ozma. "Why what can that mean? Oh dear, I do wish Dorothy were back."

"My gooseness!" giggled Scraps. "No wonder it's a silly message. Do you know any geese?"

"None but you!" sniffed Trot, putting her arms about Ozma.

"Silence, wench!" commanded Sir Hokus, pushing Scraps aside and seating himself beside the Scarecrow. "Methinks dark deeds are brewing here. Hast thought of anything friend?"

"Not yet," sighed the Scarecrow, rubbing his forehead sadly with his wobbly finger. "Let me think some more."

All were silent until Betsy Bobbin came hurrying back, bringing with her the Wizard of Oz and Tik Tok. As everyone in Oz knows, Tik Tok is another great celebrity, a machine man of burnished copper who can talk, walk and even think when properly wound. Betsy was winding up his think key, as she ran along, for Tik Tok's brains, in spite of their wheels, worked quite as well as the Scarecrow's, and there certainly was a lot of thinking to be done.

"You say it was a golden goose feather?" panted the little Wizard of Oz, quickening his steps. "A goose feather! Humph!" Next instant he was bending over the strange inscription on the walk, while Ozma and Trot breathlessly explained just how and when it had all happened.

"To-morrow to-day!" murmured the Wizard, mopping his bald head with his green hanky. "Why that's impossible, there's some trick to it."

The Wizard drew a small green book from his pocket. It was the book of magic messages and the little company waited anxiously while he flipped over the pages. But although every other kind of message was touched upon, there was nothing at all about goose feathers. With a sigh, the Wizard returned the book to his pocket, and dropping upon his knees began to examine the letters through his smallifying glass.

Tik Tok, except for the chug and whirr of his machinery, had been perfectly quiet. Now, leaning over so far he nearly tumbled on his copper nose, he began to read the message aloud.

"Go—to-morrow—to-day! Go—to-morrow—to-day!" rasped Tik Tok, in his harsh rasping voice, over and over and over, until Ozma and Betsy clapped hands to their ears and Trot begged him to stop. "That's fun-ny—," ticked the copper man at last. "It tells us when to go—but not—where. Too many times and—no—place. Go—to-mor—"

Whirr—click! Tik Tok's voice ran down and the sentence stopped in mid air.

"Thank goodness!" cried Betsy Bobbin fervently.

"Well, you'd better thank Tik Tok," spluttered the Scarecrow, leaping off the golden bench. "Hurrah! I have it now. One's a time and one's a place. Is there a Kingdom called Morrow anywhere in Oz, my dear?"

"Morrow!" exclaimed Ozma, "Why, that does sound familiar, somehow. Morrow? Yes, I feel sure there is."

"Get a map," ordered the Scarecrow in great excitement, and all but the Wizard sat down and smiled at the cleverness of the wise straw man.

CHAPTER 9

In the Castle of Morrow

The Wizard of Oz knew the geography of Ozma's wonderful land by heart and he remembered the Kingdom of Morrow perfectly. He felt a bit jealous that the Scarecrow was about to solve the mystery without his help and so he popped a small wishing pill into his mouth and began speaking rapidly in magic.

Now magic is a language which I do not profess to understand, but the results of the Wizard's speech were instantaneous and astonishing. So swiftly that the hair of the three little girls was nearly jerked from their heads, so swiftly that Sir Hokus lost his sword and Ozma her crown, they were all hurled through the air and dashed down in a very short time on the steps of an ancient and gloomy castle.

Its once splendid garden was choked up with weeds. Vines had run up and over the entire structure, covering even the windows and chimneys with a waving curtain of green. Owls hooted dismally from the towers and the scurry and scamper of frightened feet told that many little forest animals had made themselves at home within.

"Mercy," gasped Betsy Bobbin, examining anxiously a long scratch on her knee, "how did we get here?"

"Where are we?" inquired Sir Hokus, blinking very fast from his seat upon a stone lion, where he had landed a little too suddenly and emphatically for complete comfort.

"We are in Morrow," replied the Wizard, rising from the last step of the castle and dusting off his green trousers. "In Morrow, by my express wish and Dr. Nikidik's wishing pills."

"Well, you might have told us we were coming," said Trot a bit crossly, beginning to look around for her side comb.

"Morrow!" murmured Ozma, walking dreamily up the castle steps. "Why I've been here before, dozens and dozens of times."

"Got another pill, Wizard?" asked Scraps grimly.

"Ahem! No, I don't believe I have," coughed the little man nervously. "Why?"

"I wanna go home," shuddered the Patch Work Girl, looking fearfully at the dismal forest surrounding the castle and a flock of black birds circling ominously overhead. "I wanna go home!"

"You should think before you wish, old fellow," gulped the Scarecrow weakly. "Betsy, my dear, will you give me a shake. All of my straw has fallen into my left boot. And where's Tik Tok, pray?"

"I thought he'd better stay home," replied the Wizard, looking around uneasily. Now that they were really in Morrow, he began to doubt the wisdom of his quick wish. Why had he not thought to bring his magic bag or another wishing pill in case of danger?

"A rare and imposing old edifice!" observed Sir Hokus, dismounting stiffly from the stone lion, and looking up curiously at the castle.

"Well, now that we are here, we might as well look around," puffed the Scarecrow, more cheerful since Betsy had shaken him up and smoothed out his stuffing. "Come along!"

Ozma was already standing before the dull golden doors, the only portion of the castle not overgrown with vines. Stepping up behind her, Sir Hokus lifted the huge knocker and let it fall with a great clank against the tarnished metal.

"What ho, within!" roared the good Knight lustily. But only a hollow echo and the derisive hoot of an owl came shivering out to them.

"What makes you think it is a Ho?" chattered Scraps nervously.

finished the Patch Work Girl, shaking her finger reproachfully at the Wizard.

"Fear nothing," boomed Sir Hokus grandly, "I will protect you." Putting his mailed shoulder to the doors, he pressed with all his might. The bolts had evidently not been drawn and when the three little girls and the Wizard added their strength to his, the doors flew open so suddenly they all tumbled through together. Three jack rabbits and a tiny fawn leaped through a broken window pane as the doors crashed open and several bats, shaken from their hold on the beamed ceiling by the jar, began to circle round and round, screeching dismally. The hall had once been furnished with great splendor and magnificence, but now everything was covered with cobwebs, dust and decay. The dim green light filtering in through the vine covered windows made everything seem more ghastly still.

"I wanna go home!" whispered Scraps plaintively.

"Oh!" wailed Betsy Bobbin, hiding her face in the Scarecrow's coat, "I don't like this."

"Shoo!" coughed the Scarecrow, stamping his foot at a flock of mice that came scurrying across the floor and whirling his hat about his head to keep off the bats. "Shoo, I tell you!"

"What do you s'pose anyone wanted us to come here for?" groaned Trot, clinging nervously to Scraps.

"Well, there must be some reason," answered Ozma thoughtfully. "I seem to remember this castle." Disregarding the grime and dust, the lovely little Queen walked slowly across the hall and sat down on a golden chest beside the long table. Sir Hokus, finding nothing better to fight than mice and bats, began briskly to clear the room of the pests, while Trot, Betsy and the Patch Work Girl tiptoed here and there talking in tense whispers, for in the silence of the deserted castle their words echoed and re-echoed unpleasantly. Having assured themselves that there was nothing of interest in the great hall, Sir Hokus, the Wizard and the Scarecrow went bravely off to examine the rest of the castle.

"I wish they'd come back," whispered Trot, after they'd been gone about five minutes. "Oooh, what's that?"

"The wind," quavered Betsy doubtfully.

"I don't believe it," shuddered Scraps, tripping over the fire irons and sprawling upon the hearth. "It's a spook. I wanna go home! Just look at me!" Betsy and Trot giggled nervously, for Scraps, covered with grime and soot from her fall, was enough to make anyone laugh.

"Never mind," comforted Ozma, "I'll have you dry cleaned when we get back home, but now I'm trying to think, so please do be quiet."

Quiet! Scarcely was the word out of her mouth, before there was such a shivering slam overhead that all three girls jumped with terror and Scraps, for greater security leaped clear onto the table, touching as she did so a hidden spring in the top. At this there was a blinding flash and while Ozma, Betsy and Trot clung desperately together and Scraps gave another jump that carried her clear to the chandelier, the center of the table rose up before their eyes, disclosing a long silver casket.

"Don't touch it!" warned the Patch Work Girl, swinging dizzily 'round and 'round.

Someone certainly was coming down the stairs. Scarcely daring to look, they waited anxiously for the next happening.

"What befell?" It was Sir Hokus of Pokes and not a giant who stuck his head through the doorway. "Did'st call maidens?" asked the Knight, looking up at Scraps in vague disapproval.

Without stopping to explain what had frightened them, Ozma pointed a trembling finger at the silver casket and before any of them could beg him not to, Sir Hokus strode forward and opened the mysterious chest. Scraps hid her head in her arm. Then, hearing no screams nor explosions, she finally screwed up enough courage to look down. The Wizard of Oz and the Scarecrow had returned and they were all staring in amazement at a green velvet robe which Sir Hokus had taken from the chest.

"Royal robe of his Majesty, the King of Oz!" boomed the Knight, reading from a small tag on the ermine collar.

"The King of Oz?" choked Ozma, clasping her hands in excitement. "Why that's my father, and I remember now. This is the hunting lodge where we used to hide from Mombi when I was a little girl!"

"But I thought Mombi destroyed your father when she turned you to a boy," puffed Betsy Bobbin, her eyes sticking out with astonishment and surprise.

"So did I," muttered the little Wizard. He always felt uneasy and unhappy when the old witch was mentioned, for he, himself, had given Ozma into Mombi's keeping when he took possession of the Kingdom. The old witch had already spirited away the little girl's father and Ozma herself was too young to rule. But the Wizard, changed very much since those old days, realized now how wrong it had been and did not like to recall the part he had played in the affair at all.

"Well, no wonder you remembered the castle," put in Trot.

"But wait!" cried Sir Hokus hoarsely. "There is more." And turning over the tag he read: "This robe has been preserved by the Fairy Lurline, and if placed upon the King's shoulders with Incantation No. 986 from the Green Book of Magic, will restore him to his proper shape. If the incantation is used without the robe a great disaster will befall."

"Who's Lurline?" asked Trot, her eyes winking very fast indeed.

"Why Lurline is my Fairy Godmother and the Queen of the fairy band we are all descended from," explained Ozma breathlessly. "Oh girls! To think my father is really alive!" The delighted little ruler hugged Betsy and Trot so hard that they had to squeal for mercy.

"I should think you'd rather be Queen yourself," sniffed Scraps, dropping sulkily from the chandelier and coming over to stare at the King's robe. "He'll want to boss you 'round and make you go to bed at eight, wear rubbers and all that other fatherish stuff. Let's go home and not bother with him. Who wants a King anyway, I like you!"

Betsy looked shocked at the Patch Work Girl's heartless speech, but Ozma, paying no heed to Scraps, began to confer excitedly with the Wizard.

"Who sent the quill? Where shall we look first? What does it mean by the Green Book of Magic?" she asked, one question following another so fast the Wizard blinked with discomfort.

"If you take my advice," observed the Scarecrow, rubbing his nose wisely, "you'll return immediately to the Emerald City. Once there we have but to look in the Magic Picture to discover the whereabouts of your royal parent."

Among the many treasures in Ozma's palace is the Magic Picture, in which you may see anyone you wish by merely expressing the desire to see them. It also shows the country and exact situation they are in, so you can see how sensible the Scarecrow's suggestion really was.

"But what made that terrible racket upstairs?" demanded Scraps, suddenly remembering her scare.

"Oh that!" Sir Hokus shuffled his feet in embarrassment. "I fell through a trap door into a closet full of tins," explained the Knight sheepishly.

"It's a good thing you did," laughed Betsy Bobbin, "for if you hadn't frightened Scraps we might never have found the silver chest at all."

"Now that we have found it," shivered Trot, "let's go. It's cold in here."

"And let's hurry!" cried Ozma, seizing the Scarecrow affectionately by the arm. "Oh, I can scarcely wait to see my father."

"Why didn't you bring along another wishing pill, Wizard?" sighed Betsy. "We're in Morrow, sure enough, but where is Morrow? And how do we get back to the Emerald City, anyway?" No one could answer Betsy's question, for it had been so long since Ozma had been in the old castle she remembered nothing of its location.

"We'll have to walk, I s'pose," said the Scarecrow, detaching a cobweb from his ear, "and the sooner we start, the sooner we'll arrive."

"Right, as usual!" approved the Knight, taking the Scarecrow by the arm. "Forward for the King and for Oz!"

So, after another short look about, the seven adventurers closed the castle doors and began to make their way cautiously through the deserted park.

"If I only knew who sent the feather," murmured Ozma, holding up her lace skirts to keep them from catching on the bushes and thorns.

"I'll bet it was your Fairy Godmother," said Trot, skipping along excitedly.

"Well, I wish the goose had come with the feather," sighed Betsy Bobbin. "I'm hungry as the Hungry Tiger!"

sang Scraps, dancing ahead in her ridiculous fashion.

"There's a house!" called Betsy, tugging the Knight suddenly by the arm and pointing to a small red building.

"Oh!" cried Ozma, clasping her hands, "Perhaps someone lives there who can tell us about my father!"

"He may be near and he may be farther," giggled Scraps starting to run toward the little red house. "Come on everybody!"

Led by the Patch Work Girl, the little company hurried toward the little red house. No one was to be seen at the windows, and when Sir Hokus pounded on the door there was no answer.

"We are wasting time here," said the Scarecrow at last. "Let us be on our way." And so the homeward march was resumed.

CHAPTER 10

Dorothy and the Dummy

On the same bright morning that the golden goose feather had come flashing down into Ozma's garden in the Emerald City, Dorothy had said good-bye to her old friends in Perhaps City and started gaily homeward.

Her visit on Maybe Mountain, where old Peer Haps holds court and the Forgetful Poet makes verses from morning until night, had been so interesting and jolly that Dorothy still felt happy and she went skipping down the steep mountain path almost as fast as the little brook that rushed along at her side. As she skipped along she sang this merry ditty:

"I must try to remember that for Scraps," Dorothy giggled softly to herself. Her head was full of the Forgetful Poet's ridiculous rhymes, and she was so busy remembering them and the many bits of news she had for Ozma that she reached the bottom of the mountain in almost no time and, without noticing where she was going, turned into an inviting small lane. There was a sign swinging from a yellow post at the head of the lane, but Dorothy never saw it. She knew she was in the familiar Winkie Country, for the wind mills, flapping lazily in the morning breeze, were yellow, the houses were yellow and if that were not proof enough, the lane was full of daisies and buttercups and edged with golden peach and pear trees.

"I don't believe," sighed Dorothy, hurrying happily along under the lovely branches, "I don't believe there is any place so interesting as Oz. How pretty this road is!"

Stooping down, she scooped up a bit of the sand that made the bed of the lane sparkle like silver in the sunlight. It was silver, to be perfectly truthful, and with a little smile Dorothy slipped some into her pocket.

"How surprised anyone in Kansas would be to find silver dust in the road," thought the little girl, recalling her old home with a little chuckle of amusement. "No, nothing like this ever happens in America at all, and yet—" Dorothy paused to pick an unusually large buttercup and twirl it absently under her chin, "and yet I sometimes wish I were in America again, just to see—"

Wheee—ee! Off flew her hat, up flew her heels and in a whirl of silver dust and peach blossoms, off flew Dorothy herself. Off, up, away and down again, so swiftly she had not even time to swallow.

"Thirty miles to Hollywood," said the sign near the huge rock where she sat blinking with shock and astonishment.

"Hollywood!" panted Dorothy. "Why that's in California and California's in the United States. But how did I get here?" There was no one to answer her question, and as she couldn't answer it herself she jumped up, smoothed out her dress and looked anxiously about. A smooth white road ran evenly ahead, one side sloped down into a deep ravine, on the other side was a long, uninteresting stretch of meadow. Through the trees at the bottom of the ravine, Dorothy caught a glimpse of some houses.

Feeling terribly puzzled and not entirely pleased, she left the road and started down through the trees. Halfway down, she paused to make sure she was going toward the houses, when the furious clatter of hoofs on the road above made her glance up in dismay. A great company of horsemen, armed with pikes, staves, swords and pitch forks were galloping pell mell along the highway. Giving a scream of fright, Dorothy saw them turn and plunge down the ravine. With a smash and a crash they came riding upon her. Gasping in terror, Dorothy sprang behind a big tree and in a whirl of sticks, dust and color the horsemen pounded past. They were dressed in green doublets and hose. They wore wide feathered hats and were not at all the sort of folk Dorothy expected to find in America.

With her hand pressed to her heart, Dorothy peered around the tree. As she did so the wild riders reined up short and two of the most villainous looking snatched a green-cloaked figure from the saddle and hurled him violently over the cliff. Then swinging their horses round, they galloped off as suddenly as they had come, leaving Dorothy, as she afterwards explained to Sir Hokus of Pokes, perfectly petrified. Not until the last green doublet flashed out of sight did she dare stir. Then breathlessly she tiptoed to the edge of the cliff and looked over.

"Oooh—they've killed him!" gasped Dorothy, in horrified tones. Now many another small girl would have run off at once, but Dorothy had been in too many strange adventures for that. Instead she ran just as fast as she could down the steep, stony path to the bottom of the ravine. There on the stones, with his head in a shallow brook, lay the unfortunate rider. Close beside him was a great jewel-studded crown.

"A king!" marvelled Dorothy, who had met a great many monarchs in Oz. "But what is he doing here? And why?"

Holding her breath, she leaned over and touched the quiet figure. Then, taking her courage in both hands, she seized him by the arms and dragged him out of the brook. He came so suddenly and unexpectedly that Dorothy fell over backwards. More mystified than ever, she picked herself up.

"Mercy!" stuttered the little girl, turning him over gingerly. "He's not alive at all; he's stuffed. Why he's only a dummy."

Half relieved and half disappointed, she gazed into the bland face of the fallen king. It was a handsomely painted face, which even the brook mud could not entirely spoil, and it was topped by a splendid silver wig. But what on earth did it all mean? If Dorothy had been in Oz she might have found it more understandable, for strange things are always happening in Oz. But in America! Dorothy could not puzzle it out. Sitting down on a fallen tree she stared at the dummy in perfect astonishment. How had she come here herself? How was she to get back to the Emerald City? Who were the wild green riders, and why had they flung the dummy over the cliff?

"I wish," sighed Dorothy at last, looking pensively at the long green figure stretched so solemnly at her feet, "I wish you were alive and then maybe—"

"Maybe what?" wheezed the dummy, raising his head about an inch and blinking at her curiously. "Say, who pulled me out of the brook?"

Dorothy gave a little scream and then, recovering herself and swallowing hard, answered breathlessly, "I did!"

"Well, I'm supposed to be dead," puffed the dummy reproachfully. "Try to get that through your hair, can't you? I've just been thrown over the cliff by the revolutionists. You shouldn't have rescued me, little girl. It will spoil the picture. Is there a camera man anywhere about?"

"Camera?" gasped Dorothy faintly, "Oh, I don't know." It had been a long time since Dorothy had been in America, and there had been very few moving pictures in those old days on the Kansas farm. But Trot, who had come to Oz from San Francisco, had told Dorothy a lot about the screen stars and moving picture stunts. As she recalled Trot's stories, Dorothy clapped her hands. Smiling at the dummy she said, "I know! You're a moving picture dummy, aren't you?"

"Right the first time," said the dummy, as he raised his head another inch and smiled approvingly at Dorothy. "I take all the risks," he explained complacently. "I fall for the stars. Now this star was a foolish old King, but the last star I fell for was a shooting star—a cow-boy, you know. I was thrown from a horse under a stampeding herd of steers," he mused dreamily, "and had to be entirely remade.

"But you had better run along now, little girl. I'm supposed to be dead. It doesn't hurt," he observed graciously, as Dorothy continued to stare at him in amazement. "I've died a hundred times and know all about it. Run along now, like a good child." Lowering his head, he settled down resignedly in the mud and stared stolidly up at the sky.

"Well, of course if you prefer to be dead," began Dorothy a bit stiffly, "I'll go. But why you should want to lie there in the mud, when the sun is shining and everything so nice and interesting, I don't see. You're not dead at all. You're as alive as I am!"

The dummy sat bolt upright at Dorothy's words and started to pinch himself curiously. "Why so I am," he puffed, rubbing his nose thoughtfully with his stuffed and pudgy finger. "Sit down again my dear, until I get used to the idea of it, will you? It feels very odd and dangerous!" He shook one leg, then the other and rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Hurrah!" cried Dorothy "Why I believe you can walk. Here, lean on this." She thrust a stick into the dummy's hand and after a few uncertain wobblings, he began to pace briskly up and down, his green velvet cloak slapping merrily at his heels. Dorothy was so interested in his progress that she almost forgot how ridiculous it was for a dummy to be alive, but as he lowered himself carefully to the log beside her, she began to wonder again how it had all happened.

"Were you ever alive before?" asked Dorothy curiously.

The dummy shook his head. "If talking and walking around like this is being alive, then I never have," said the dummy positively. "What shall I do now?"

"Why anything you like," laughed Dorothy, beginning to enjoy herself.

"But a dummy can only do as he's told," sighed the stuffed king doubtfully. "And who are you my dear? Have you run off to go into the movies?" He looked at Dorothy critically from all sides. "Not bad at all," he murmured approvingly. "They'll be glad to get you, I'm sure. Just stay here with me and presently they will come in a truck and collect us. Yes, that's the ticket, we'll wait until we are collected."

"Well, I'm not a ticket," giggled Dorothy, "and I don't want to be collected or go into the movies either. I'm going straight back to Oz, as soon as I can."

"Oz?" queried the dummy, pressing his finger to his forehead. "Is that a place or a tonic?"

"It's a place," sputtered Dorothy. "Oh dear, wouldn't Ozma be surprised to see you! You know, you're awfully like Scraps and the Scarecrow."

"They sound rather awful," smiled the dummy, folding his cloak around him dubiously. "Are they dummies too?"

"No, but they're stuffed," explained Dorothy, leaning over to poke him experimentally in the chest. "You talk very queerly. I do wonder what you are stuffed with!"

"Hair, I think," yawned the dummy indifferently, and leaning over he picked up his crown and set it jauntily upon the side of his head. "I wouldn't go back to that Oz place if I were you," he advised earnestly. "Stay here and you can see a moving picture every day—exciting and adventurous stuff too."

"But what's the fun of looking at other folks having adventures," sniffed Dorothy. "In Oz we have adventures ourselves, and in Oz I'm a Princess and live in a castle."

The dummy turned and looked at her respectfully. "A Princess," he murmured in a faint voice. "Oh!"

"Have you any name?" asked Dorothy, rather ashamed of her boast about being a Princess.

"Well, there's a number on the back of my neck, but I don't think I have any name," answered the stuffed man uneasily. "I'm just a dummy, you know."

"But I wouldn't like to call you a dummy," said Dorothy gently.

"Well that's what I am," insisted the stuffed king cheerfully, "a regular dummy."

Tiptoeing round back of him, Dorothy pulled out a little tag on the back of his collar. "202-B-E-10-B-47" read the little girl. "My, what a long number."

"Yes, isn't it," replied the dummy proudly. "Couldn't you call me by that?"

"I could never remember it," objected Dorothy. "Let—me—see, I might call you Clifford 'cause you fell off a cliff, or Cal, 'cause I found you in California? Do you know, you are dreadfully humpy in spots. Humpy! Why I believe I'll call you Humpy!" cried Dorothy, clapping her hands softly.

"Oooh! Ouch! What's that?" In sudden terror Dorothy clutched at her left shoe.

"I don't care what you call me, but I'd call you very odd!" said the dummy in alarm. "You've grown at least a foot while I've been looking at you. People in this country are supposed to stay the same size," he muttered, edging away uneasily. But Dorothy scarcely heard him. There was a frightful pain in her heart and both shoes pinched so terribly that she screamed aloud. At the same instant all the buttons flew off the back her dress.

"Are you going to burst?" asked the dummy anxiously.

"Oh! Oh! I'm afraid so," gasped the little girl, clutching herself about the waist. At each word she shot up another inch, for Dorothy, who had lived in the Fairy Land of Oz for many years, was suddenly growing up.

In Oz, no one ever grows up, but in America Dorothy would be quite a young lady by this time and, removed from the magical influences of that magical land, she was growing all at once and finding it, as most of the rest of us do, an exceedingly uncomfortable business. Her screams as she grew taller and taller were so piteous that Humpy fell off the log.

"Help! Help! Help!" wailed the dummy, beating his flimsy arms up and down among the leaves.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" panted Dorothy desperately. "I can't stand this another minute. I wish I were back. I wish I were back!"

Next moment there was not a sound in the ravine, nor a person, nor even a dummy. Only a startled squirrel ran up and down the log, chattering with fright and annoyance. Certainly he had seen two people on that log. Well, where were they now? He frisked his tail, he wiggled his nose and scratched his head anxiously. Then, with a little bounce, he gave it up and went off to crack some nuts for supper.

CHAPTER 11

A Real Oz Adventure

"The last thing I remember," muttered the dummy thickly, "was a little girl shooting up like a fountain. Now what happened after that?" Dorothy raised her head and looked cautiously in the direction from which the voice was coming. The dummy lay, face down, in a great heap of leaves and, without making any attempt to rise, went stuffily on with the conversation. "I don't mind falling for stars, but being flung around like a bean bag for a person who is one size this minute and another size the next is all wrong. I wonder where she is now!"

"Here I am," called Dorothy breathlessly, rolling out of a pile of leaves on the other side of him. "How do you s'pose we got here?"

"Little again!" groaned the dummy, just lifting his head long enough to look at her, and then letting it drop back among the leaves. "Little again!"

"Oh, am I?" Dorothy jumped up in great excitement and began measuring herself as best she could. Her stockings were stretched and torn, her dress was ripped in several seams and minus all of its buttons. But outside of this she was her old, or rather her young, sweet self again.

"Why we must be back in Oz," sighed Dorothy, looking with deep relief at a stretch of purple hills in the background. "This is the Gilliken Country."

"Are you still the same size, or are you going to shoot up into a young lady again? Don't shoot," begged the dummy quickly. "It makes me nervous!"

"Well, I don't know," said Dorothy doubtfully. To tell the truth the little girl had not had time to think at all, nor did she quite realize that she was one age in Oz and another age in America. "I'll have to ask the Wizard about it when we get back to the Emerald City," she sighed, with a very puzzled expression. "It's all very funny, don't you think so, Humpy?"

"Can't get it through my hair at all," puffed the dummy. Sitting up stiffly he reached for his crown. "Where are we now and when does the next reel begin?"

Instead of answering Dorothy plumped down among the leaves and, with her elbows on her knees, stared thoughtfully at the dummy.

"I wish I knew how you came to be alive, and how we got back to Oz," mused Dorothy slowly. There was a flash and flutter in the air and down at her feet dropped a crisp white card. Humpy promptly toppled over backward and Dorothy, herself, gave a little gasp of surprise.

"By wishing," said the card in pink letters, just as if it had heard her questions. Below there was some smaller printing and picking up the card Dorothy quickly read on: "Wish Way is at the foot of Maybe Mountain. This morning you were on Wish Way. You put some of the silver wishing sand in your pocket. You wished yourself in America."

"Mercy!" cried Dorothy, dropping the card in her astonishment. "Why so I did, and I wished you were alive, and I wished we were back and now I'm going to wish us both straight to the Emerald City. I was on Wish Way once before and know all about wishing."

"Wait! Wait a minute," panted the dummy, clutching his crown. "I'm used to being flung about, to dying and all that sort of thing, but this wishing business makes me breathless. Wait!"

Dorothy had already made her wish and, closing her eyes, sat perfectly still. After a moment she opened them but nothing at all had happened. She and Humpy were still sitting on the pile of leaves and the white card had vanished. Blinking rapidly, Dorothy felt in her pocket. "No wonder it didn't work," muttered Dorothy. "The wishing sand's all gone. I must have used the last grain when I wished we were back. Oh dear, we'll have to walk!"

"Where?" Holding his crown with both hands, the dummy sat up and looked anxiously at the little girl.

"To the Emerald City, where I live, in a splendid palace with Ozma, the Queen," explained Dorothy patiently.

"Well, I wouldn't mind living in a palace at all. I'm dressed for the part. Let's go on," said the dummy cheerfully. After a few bends backwards and a few bends forwards, he rose and started unsteadily down the road. "You can be the star in this picture," he added generously, "and I'll be your double and fall for you any time you say."

"All right!" agreed Dorothy, taking him cozily by the arm. Having had great experience with stuffed persons, and having brought Humpy to life, she felt more or less responsible for him. As they walked along together, she told him a little about herself and as much about the wonderful Land of Oz as she thought a man with hair brains could understand. So many marvelous things had happened to Humpy in the movies that he evinced no surprise at Dorothy's stories.

As the dummy and Dorothy hurried on, a great screaming and scolding made them stop short. A scraggy-looking woods cut off the road ahead and, advancing backward upon them, there came two crooked and curious woodsmen bearing a flag. As the flag fluttered and rippled in the wind, Dorothy tried to make out the strange words embroidered in white upon its purple background.

"Eht Kcab Sdoow!" said the flag mysteriously.

"Og yawa! Og yawa!" shouted the woodsmen rudely. "Teg tou! Teg tou! Teg tou!"

"Is this Oz talk," gasped Humpy, falling back in dismay, "or Arabic? I was in an Arabian picture once and it sounded something like this. Tou teg, yourselves," he shouted defiantly, as the woodsmen drew nearer, "and none of your back talk either!"