“Not now,” begged the Prince of Pumperdink, as Kabumpo unceremoniously helped him to the ground. His knees shook, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He had never proposed to a Fairy Princess before in his whole life. Then all at once he had an idea. Slipping his hand into the Elegant Elephant’s pocket, he drew out the magic mirror. “I’ll see if she’s a princess,” stuttered Pompa.

The elephant shook his head angrily but was afraid to speak again lest he disturb the quiet figure on the bench.

“And I’ll not propose unless she is the one,” said Pompa, tip-toeing toward the bench. Without making a sound he suddenly held the mirror before the startled and lovely lady.

“Glinda, good Sorceress of Oz,” flashed the mirror promptly.

“Great gooseberries!” cried Glinda, springing to her feet in alarm and swinging around on Pompa. “Where did you come from?” After studying a whole day and night in her magic books, Glinda had returned to the Emerald City to try to perfect her plan for rescuing Ozma.

“From Pumperdink, your Highness,” puffed Kabumpo, lunging forward anxiously. He, too, had seen the words in the mirror and the fear of offending a Sorceress made him quake in his skin—which was loose enough to quake in, dear knows!

“A thousand pardons!” cried the Prince, dropping on one knee and taking off his crown. “We were seeking Princess Ozma, the Fairy Ruler of Oz.”

Glinda looked from Kabumpo to the Prince and controlled a desire to laugh. The Elegant Elephant’s torn and scorched robe hung in rags from his shoulders and his jeweled headpiece was dangling over one ear. Pompa’s clothes were equally shabby and his almost bald head with a lock sticking up here and there gave him a singular and comical appearance.

“Pumperdink?” mused Glinda, tapping her foot thoughtfully. Then, like a flash she remembered the entry in the Book of Records—“The Prince of Pumperdink is journeying toward the Emerald City.”

“Why did you want to see Ozma?” asked Glinda anxiously. Perhaps these two strangers could throw some light on the mysterious disappearance of the Royal Palace.

“Our country was threatened with disappearance and I thought—”

“He thought Ozma might help us,” finished the Elegant Elephant breathlessly. He did not believe in telling strange Sorceresses about everything. Now if Glinda had not been so occupied with the disappearance of the palace and all the dearest people in Oz, she might have been more curious about the disappearance of Pumperdink. As it was she just shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid Ozma cannot help you,” she said, “for Ozma herself has disappeared—Ozma and everyone in the palace.”

“Disappeared!” trumpeted the Elegant Elephant, sitting down with a thud. “Great Grump! The thing’s getting to be a habit!”

What was to become of Pompa now? Would he never be King, nor he, Kabumpo, ever be known as the most Elegant Elephant in Oz? Had they made the long journey in vain?

“Where? When?” gasped Prince Pompadore.

“Night before last,” explained Glinda. “I’ve been consulting my magic books ever since but have only been able to discover one fact.”

“What is that?” asked Kabumpo faintly.

“That they are in Ev,” said Glinda, “and that a giant carried them off. I came here early this morning to see whether I could discover anything new. Would you care to see where the castle stood?”

“Did he carry the castle off, too?” shuddered Pompa. Glinda nodded gloomily and led them over to the great hole in the center of the gardens.

For a minute she stood watching them. Then, glancing at a golden sun dial set in the center of a lovely flower bed, she murmured half to herself, “I must be off!” Next instant she clapped her hands and down swept a shining chariot drawn by white swans.

“Good-bye!” called Glinda, springing in lightly. “I’m off to Ev to try my magic against the giant’s. Wait here and when I’ve helped Ozma perhaps I can help you!”

“Can’t we help? Can’t we go?” cried Pompa, running a few steps after the chariot, but Glinda, already high in the air, did not hear him and in the wink of an eye the chariot and its lovely occupant had melted into the pink morning clouds.

“Now what shall we do?” groaned the Prince, letting his arms drop heavily at his sides.

“Do!” snorted Kabumpo. “The thing for you to do is to act like a Prince instead of a Gooch! There are other ways of getting to Ev than by chariot.”

The thought of Kabumpo in Glinda’s chariot made Pompa smile in spite of himself.

“There! That’s better,” said the Elegant Elephant more pleasantly.

“Now, what’s to hinder us from going to Ev and rescuing Princess Ozma? She couldn’t help marrying you if you saved her from a giant, could she?”

“But could I save her—that’s the question,” muttered the Prince, looking uneasily at the yawning cavity where the castle had stood. “This giant must be a terrible fellow!”

“Pooh!” said Kabumpo airily. “Who’s afraid of giants? I’ll wind my trunk around his leg and pull him to earth. Then you can dispatch the villain. We must get you a sword, though,” he added softly.

“All right! I’ll do it!” cried the Prince, throwing out his chest. The very thought of killing a giant made him feel about ten feet high. “Do you know the way to Ev, Kabumpo? We’ll have to hurry, because unless I marry Ozma before the seven days are up my poor old father and mother and all of Pumperdink will disappear forever.”

You see, even Pompa had now got it into his head that Ozma was the Proper Princess mentioned in the scroll.

“We’ll start at once,” sighed the Elegant Elephant a bit ruefully. “I’ve had no sleep and precious little to eat but when you are King of Oz you can reward old Kabumpo as he deserves.”

“Everything I have will be yours,” cried the Prince, giving the elephant, or as much of him as he could grasp, a sudden hug. Then each took a long drink from one of the bubbling fountains and, munching the rolls Kabumpo had picked up in the Gilliken village, the two adventurers stole out of the gardens.

As they reached the gates, Kabumpo paused and his little eyes twinkled with delight. There lay the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, snoring tremendously and beside him was a long, sharp sword with an emerald handle. “Just what we need,” chuckled Kabumpo, snatching it up in his trunk. Then out through the gates and swiftly through the still sleeping city swept the Elegant Elephant and the Prince of Pumperdink, off to rescue Princess Ozma, a prisoner in Ev!

Chapter 13
On The Road To Ev

In their journey to Ev, Peg and Wag had a night’s start of Kabumpo and Prince Pompadore, but towards morning Wag’s ears began to droop with sleep.

“Gotta natch a sap, Peg,” Wag muttered thickly, as they halted on a little hill.

“Natch a sap? What’s that?” asked the Wooden Doll anxiously. Wag made no answer—just flopped on his side and in a minute was asleep and snoring tremendously.

“Oh!” whispered Peg, pulling herself gently from beneath the sleeping rabbit. “He meant snatch a nap.”

She laughed softly and seated herself under a small tree. The birds were beginning to waken and their singing filled Peg Amy with delight. “How wonderful it all is,” she murmured, gazing up at the little ruffly pink clouds. “How wonderful it is to be alive!”

“Hello! Mr. Robin!” she called gaily, as a bird flew to a low bush beside her. “Are your children quite well?”

The robin swung backward and forward on his swaying branch; then burst into his best morning song.

“Oh!” cried Peg Amy, clasping her wooden hands, “I’ve heard that before! But how could I?” she reasoned, “I’m only a Wooden Doll and this is the first morning I have been alive. But then, how did I know it was a robin?”

Peg rubbed her wooden forehead in perplexity, for it was all very puzzling indeed. Below their little hill stretched the lovely land of the Winkies, with its great green forests and little yellow villages. The wind sent the leaves dancing above Peg’s head and the early sunbeams made lovely patterns on the grass.

“I’ve seen it before!” gasped the Wooden Doll breathlessly. “The trees, the birds, the houses and everything!” Springing to her feet she ran awkwardly from bush to tree, touching the leaves and bending over the flowers as if they were old friends. Had it not been for the squeaking of her wooden joints, Peg would almost have forgotten she was a Wooden Doll, for at the sight of the lovely green growing things something warm and sunny seemed to waken in her stiff wooden breast. “I’ve been alive before,” said Peg Amy over and over.

Suddenly, through the still morning air, came a loud, shrill laugh. Peg, who had been standing with her cheek pressed closely against a small tree, swung around quickly—so quickly in fact that she fell over and lay in a ridiculously bent double position before the new-comers.

It was Kabumpo and the Prince of Pumperdink. Traveling by the same road Wag had chosen but much more rapidly, the Elegant Elephant had come at sunrise to the little hill. He had been watching Peg for some time, and when he saw her dance awkwardly over to the tree, he could no longer restrain himself.

“Get out your mirror!” roared Kabumpo, shaking all over with mirth. “Here is your Proper Princess, Pompa, my boy—as royal a maiden as the country boasts. Ho, ho! Kerumph!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Pompa, looking down curiously at the comical figure of Peg Amy.

“But she’s so funny!” gasped Kabumpo, the tears rolling down his big cheeks.

“Who’s funny?” demanded an angry voice and Wag, who had been awakened by Kabumpo’s loud roars, hopped up, his ears quivering with rage.

“I’ll pull your long nose for you!” cried Wag, advancing threateningly. “Don’t you dare make fun of Peg. What are you, anyway?”

“Great Grump!” choked Kabumpo, without answering Wag’s inquiry. “What kind of a rabbit is this?”

“A clawing, chawing, scratching kind—as you’ll soon find out!” Wag drew himself up into a ball and prepared to launch himself at Kabumpo’s head, when Peg straightened up and caught him by the ear.

“Don’t, Wag, please,” she begged. “He couldn’t help laughing. I am funny. You know I am!” she sighed a bit ruefully.

“You’re not funny to me,” blustered Wag, still glaring at Kabumpo. “Who does he think he is?”

“I?” sniffed Kabumpo, spreading out his ears complacently, “I am the Elegant Elephant of Pumperdink. Notice my pearls; gaze upon my robe.”

“You don’t look very elegant to me,” snorted Wag. “You look more like a tramp. Says he’s a lelegant nelephant from Dumperpink,” he whispered scornfully to Peg.

“And what’s that you’ve got on your back?” he called, with a wave of his paw at Pompa. “A dunce?”

“Dunce!” screamed Kabumpo furiously. “This is the Prince of Pumperdink, you good-for-nothing lettuce-eater! What do you mean by laughing at royalty?”

“Royalty! Oh, ha, ha, ha!” roared Wag, rolling over and over in the grass. “But he’s so funny!” He paused to take another look at the Prince. At this Kabumpo lunged forward, his eyes snapping angrily.

“Stop!” begged the Prince, tugging Kabumpo by the ear. “You were rude to his friend that—er—doll, so you must expect him to be rude to me. It’s all your fault,” he added reproachfully.

“Are you a Prince?” asked Peg Amy, staring up at Pompa with her round, painted eyes.

“Of course he’s a Prince. Didn’t I say so before? Who is that hoppy creature?”

“That’s Wag—such a dear fellow.” Peg smiled confidently at Kabumpo and he was suddenly ashamed of himself for laughing at her.

“Well, he needn’t get waggish with me,” grumbled the Elegant Elephant in a lower voice.

“Oh, don’t quarrel!” begged Peg. “It’s such a lovely morning and you both look so interesting.”

Kabumpo eyed the big Wooden Doll attentively. It was smart of her to think him interesting. He cleared his throat gruffly.

“You’re not as funny as you look,” he admitted grandly, which was the nearest to an apology he had ever come. “But what are you doing here and why are you alive?”

“I don’t know,” explained Peg apologetically. “It just happened last night.”

“It did? Well, where are you going?”

Wag still looked cross and his nose was twitching violently, but Peg politely answered Kabumpo’s question.

“We’re on our way to Ev to try to help Ozma,” said the Wooden Doll, folding her hands quaintly.

“Why so are we!” cried Pompa, sliding down Kabumpo’s trunk in a hurry.

“How do you expect to help her?” grunted Kabumpo, looking at Wag and Peg contemptuously.

“Don’t mind him,” begged Pompa, running up to Peg Amy. “Tell me everything you know about Ozma. Is she pretty?”

“Beautiful,” breathed Peg, looking up at the sky. “Beautiful and lovely and good. That’s why I want to help her.”

“Then I sha’n’t mind marrying her at all,” said Pompa, with a great sigh of relief.

“Gooch!” roared Kabumpo angrily—“Telling everything you know!”

“Do you mean to say you think Ozma would marry you?” gasped Wag, sitting up with a jerk. “Oh, my wocks and hoop soons!” His ears crossed and uncrossed and with a final gurgle of disbelief Wag fell back on the grass.

“Well, is there anything so strange in that?” asked Pompa in a hurt voice. “I’ve got to marry her,” he added, desperately appealing to Peg Amy. And while Kabumpo stood sulkily swinging his trunk the Prince told Peg the whole story of the magic scroll.

“I said you looked interesting,” breathed Peg, as Pompa paused for breath. “Did you hear that, Wag? Unless he marries a Proper Princess in a proper time his whole Kingdom will disappear—his Kingdom and everyone in it!”

“But how do you know Ozma is the Proper Princess?” asked Wag, chewing a blade of grass. “The scroll didn’t say Ozma, did it?”

“Kabumpo thinks Ozma is the Proper Princess,” explained Pompadore, nodding toward the Elegant Elephant, “and he’s usually right!”

“Humph!” sniffed Wag. “Well, maybe you are a Prince. You’re not really bad looking if you had some fur on your head,” he remarked more amiably. “What happened? Somebody pull it out?”

“Oh, Wag!” murmured Peg Amy, in a shocked voice.

“Burned off,” sighed Pompa, and proceeded to tell of their fall into the Illumi Nation. He even told them about the Soup Sea and of their meeting with Glinda, the Good.

“Don’t you care,” said the big Wooden Doll, as Pompa mournfully rubbed his scorched head. “It will soon grow again and I don’t see how Ozma could help loving you—you’re so tall, and so polite.” This kind little speech affected Pompa so deeply that he dropped on one knee and raised Peg’s wooden hand to his lips.

“The creature has a lot of sense,” mumbled Kabumpo, with his mouth full of leaves.

“Creature!” exclaimed Wag, sitting up straight and opening his eyes wide. “Her name is Peg Amy, Mr. Nelegant Lelephant.”

“Oh, all right,” sniffed Kabumpo hastily. “But you’ll have to admit she’s curious.”

“Of course she is,” said Wag complacently. “That’s why I like her. She wasn’t cut out to be a beauty, but to be companionable, and she is. When you’ve known Peg as long as I have”—Wag paused impressively—“you’ll be proud to carry her on your back, Mr. Long Nose!”

“I’ve only known her a few minutes and I adore her!” said Pompa heartily. “Mistress Peg and I are good friends already.” Peg curtseyed awkwardly. “I’ve done this before,” she reflected curiously to herself.

“Shall we tell them about Ruggedo?” Peg asked aloud, turning to Wag.

“Yes, do!” begged Pompa. “Tell us something about yourselves. I never saw so large a rabbit in my life as Wag and as for you!”—Pompa paused, for Wag was eying him resentfully—“you are the largest, most delightful doll I have ever met, the only alive one, I might say. How did you know about Ozma’s disappearance and how were you going to help her?”

“Mixed Magic!” whispered Wag, crossing his ears and his eyes as well. “Mixed Magic!”

“Magic?” gulped Kabumpo, swallowing a branch of sticky leaves whole. “Have you any magic?”

“A whole box full,” sighed Peg Amy, patting her pocket softly.

“In that box is the magic that brought Peg to life!” shrilled Wag, pointing a trembling paw. “In that box is the magic that made us grow. In that box is the magic that caused Ozma’s castle to disappear—!”

“Great Grump!” whistled Kabumpo. “How fortunate we fell in with them, Pompa.” He held out his trunk. “Give me the box, my good girl, and you shall be fittingly rewarded when Pompa is King of Oz.”

“That’s a long time to wait,” chuckled Wag, tickled by Kabumpo’s outrageous impudence. “No, Peg and I will just keep the box, thank you.”

“Of course you will,” said Prince Pompadore, frowning at Kabumpo. “But as we are both bound on the same errand, let us travel together. Kabumpo and I are going to kill the giant who ran off with the castle.”

The Prince held up his long sword. “And if you can help us, I shall thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Pompa stretched out his hand impulsively.

“Well, that’s more like,” said Wag, pulling his ear thoughtfully. “And four heads are better than two!”

“Of course we’ll help you!” cried Peg Amy. “The trouble is, we don’t know ourselves how to open the magic box, but we do know that Ruggedo is in Ev and when we get there we will make him open the box and undo all this mischief.”

“You mentioned him before,” said Kabumpo, holding up his trunk. “Who is Ruggedo and what has he to do with Ozma?”

“Ruggedo is a wicked little gnome,” explained Peg Amy gravely. “He used to be King of the Gnomes but he was banished from his Kingdom and Ozma gave him a little cottage in the Emerald City. He pretended to live there, but instead he tunneled a cave right underneath the palace. Wag helped him dig.” Peg waved her hand at the rabbit. “And he was the only one who would stay with him. Then Ruggedo stole me. I was only a small, unalive doll, belonging to Trot, a little girl who lives with Ozma. Ruggedo stole me just to shake,” continued Peg shuddering.

“That’s why I’m going to pound his curly toes off!” screamed Wag, beginning to hop about at the very thought of Ruggedo.

“But how did you come to be so large and alive?” asked Kabumpo, who was growing more interested.

“Well, one night”—Peg dropped her voice to a whisper—“One night Ruggedo found this box of Mixed Magic hidden in the cave and then—”

“Then,” screamed Wag hoarsely, “in some way we don’t understand, Peg and I grew big, Peg came alive, the top blew off the cave—and depend upon it, whatever’s happened to Ozma and her palace happened from something in that box. It’s all Ruggedo’s fault. When I catch him”—Wag began to wiggle his nose and paw his whiskers—“my wocks and hoop soons! I’ll pound his curly toes off!”

“And I’ll help you!” cried Kabumpo heartily. He could not help but admire such spirit. “Come on—let’s start. You may ride on my back with Pompa if you care to,” finished the Elegant Elephant with a sidelong glance at Peg.

“Oh, thank you,” smiled the Wooden Doll, “but Wag will carry me.”

“I always carry Peg,” said Wag jealously. “I’ve known her the longest.”

“Oh, all right,” sniffed Kabumpo, lifting Pompa up, “but if she ever wants to ride on my back she may.”

“Humph!” grunted Wag, as the Wooden Doll settled herself on his shoulders. “Isn’t he generous!”

Peg pulled down one of Wag’s long ears. “It was kindly meant,” whispered the Wooden Doll merrily.

“Ready?” puffed Kabumpo, backing out into the road. “We’ve no time to lose, for if we lose time we lose our Kingdom too. Forward for Pumperdink!”

“All right!” cried Wag, giving a great leap. “Follow me!” And off hopped the giant bunny so fast that Kabumpo had to stretch his legs even to keep him in sight.

Chapter 14
Terror In Ozma’s Palace

Meanwhile strange things had been happening in Ozma’s palace. For the people inside it had been a very mean time indeed. During Ruggedo’s run to the mountains of Ev, they had almost been shaken out of their wits and when he sat down upon the mountain top there was not a person nor piece of furniture standing in the whole palace. Courtiers and servants who were not knocked senseless lay shaking in their beds or huddled in corners and under sofas and chairs, just as they had fallen when the first terrible crash lifted the palace into the air.

Ozma’s four poster bed had collapsed, pinning the little Fairy Princess under a mass of silk hangings and curtain poles. Being a fairy, Ozma was unhurt, but not being able to move, nor to reach her Magic Belt or even make herself heard, she was forced to lie perfectly still and wait for help.

In Dorothy’s sitting room there was not a sound but the ticking of the Copper Man’s machinery. Trot and Betsy Bobbin had knocked their heads together so smartly that they were unconscious. Sir Hokus had been hurled violently against Tik Tok and the poor Knight had known nothing since. Dorothy lay quietly beside him, an ugly bruise on her forehead, where the emerald clock had landed.

“Scraps!” called the Scarecrow, sometime after the rumble and tumble had ceased, “are you there?”

“No, here!” gasped the Patch Work Girl, sitting up cautiously. She had bounced all around the room and finally rolled into a corner quite close to the Scarecrow himself. She put out her cotton hand as she spoke and touched him.

“How fortunate we are unbreakable,” said the Scarecrow, pressing her cotton fingers convulsively and trying to peer out through the intense blackness of the room. “What happened?”

“Earthquake!” shivered Scraps. “And maybe it’s not over!”

“Must have knocked everybody silly,” said the Scarecrow huskily.

“Except us,” giggled the Patch Work Girl. “We couldn’t be knocked silly ’cause we were silly in the first place.”

“Now, don’t make jokes, please,” begged the Scarecrow. “This is serious. Besides, I want to think.”

“All right,” said Scraps cheerfully. “I don’t—but I’m going to feel around and see if I can find the matches. There used to be some candles on the mantel and—” As she spoke, Scraps fell headlong over Sir Hokus of Pokes and as luck would have it her cotton fingers closed over a small gold match box. Picking herself up carefully, Scraps struck a match on Sir Hokus’ armor and looked anxiously around the room.

“They need water,” said the Patch Work Girl, wrinkling up her patchwork forehead.

“So will you if you don’t blow out that match!” cried the Scarecrow in alarm, for Scraps continued to hold the match till it burned to the very end. He jumped up clumsily and puffed out the light just in time. Scraps promptly lit another and as she did so the Scarecrow saw a tall blue candle sticking out of the waste basket.

“Here,” said the Straw Man nervously. “Light this and stand it on the mantel there.” By the flickering candle light the Scarecrow and Scraps tried to set Dorothy’s room to rights. They dragged the mattress from the bed-room and placed the little girls on it, side by side. Sir Hokus was too heavy to move, so they merely loosened his armor and put a sofa cushion under his head. Then, just as Scraps was going for some water, the room began to tremble again.

“I told you it wasn’t over,” cried Scraps, flinging both arms about the Scarecrow’s neck. And as they rocked to and fro she shouted merrily:

“Now, Scraps,” begged the Scarecrow, steadying the Patch Work Girl with one hand and catching hold of a table with the other, “everything depends on us. Do try to keep your head!”

“Keep my head!” shrilled Scraps, as the room tilted over and slid all the furniture sideways. “I’ll be lucky if I keep my feet. Whoopee! Here we go!” And go they did with a rush into the farthest corner. Slowly the room righted itself and everything grew quiet again.

“I know what I’m going to do,” said the Scarecrow determinedly. “Before anything else happens I’m going to see what has happened already.”

“How?” asked Scraps, bouncing to her feet.

“The Magic Picture,” gasped the Scarecrow. “You bring the candle, Scraps, like a good girl. You’re less liable to take fire than I am. Then we’ll come back and help Dorothy and the others.”

“Good idea,” said Scraps, taking the candle from the mantel. Breathlessly the two tip-toed along the hall to Ozma’s apartment. On the wall in one of Ozma’s rooms hangs the most magic possession in Oz. It is a picture representing a country scene, but when you ask it where a certain person is, immediately he is shown in the picture and also what he is doing at the time.

“So,” murmured the Scarecrow, as they gained the room in safety, “if it tells where other people are, it ought to tell us where we are ourselves.”

Drawing aside the curtain that covered the picture the Scarecrow demanded loudly, “Where are we?”

Scraps held the candle so that its flickering rays fell directly on the picture. Then both jumped in earnest, for in a flash the face of Ruggedo, the wicked old gnome King, appeared, on his head a great, green towering sort of hat.

The Scarecrow seized the candle from Scraps and held it closer to the picture. He squinted up one eye and almost rubbed his painted nose off.

“Great Kinkajous!” spluttered the Straw Man distractedly. “That’s a palace on his head—an Emerald palace—Ozma’s palace!”

“But how?” asked Scraps, her suspender button eyes almost dropping out. “He’s nothing but a gnome. He’s—”

Before Scraps could finish her sentence the palace began to tilt forward and they both fell upon their faces. Then the picture jerked loose and fell with a clattering slam on their heads, followed by such ornaments as had not already tumbled down before. Through it all Scraps held the candle high in air and fortunately it did not go out, despite the turmoil.

In a few moments the palace stopped rocking and a muffled call from Ozma sent the Scarecrow and Scraps hurrying to her bedside. After some trouble, for they were both flimsily made, they managed to free the little Princess of Oz from the poles and bed curtains.

“Goodness!” sighed Ozma, looking around at the terrible confusion.

“Not goodness, but badness,” said the Scarecrow, settling his hat firmly, “and Ruggedo is at the bottom of it and of us.” He quickly explained to Ozma what he had seen in the Magic Picture.

Slipping on a silk robe, Ozma followed them into the next room. When the picture had been rehung, they all looked again. This time Ozma asked where the palace was. Immediately the old Gnome King appeared and there could be no mistake—the palace was set squarely on his head. The picture did not show the real size of Ruggedo nor of the palace, but it was enough.

“He must have sprung into a giant,” gasped Ozma, scarcely believing her eyes. “Oh, what shall we do?”

“The first thing to do is to keep him quiet. Every time he shakes his head it tumbles us about so,” complained the Scarecrow, plumping up the straw in his chest. “And we must look after Dorothy and Betsy and Trot.”

“And Sir Hokus,” added the Patch Work Girl, flinging out one hand. “He’s yearning to slay a giant. ’Way for the Giant Killer!”

Without waiting for the others Scraps ran back to Dorothy’s sitting room. Lighting another candle, for all the lights in the palace were out, Ozma and the Scarecrow followed.

“Odds Goblins!” gasped the Knight, as they entered. He was sitting up with one hand to his head.

“Not goblins—giants!” cried the Patch Work Girl, with a bounce, while Ozma ran for some water to restore her three little friends.

“Where?” puffed the Knight, lurching to his feet.

“Beneath you,” said the Scarecrow, clutching at a wisp of straw that stuck out of his head. “Say! Some one wind up Tik Tok. There’s a lot of thinking to be done here and his head works very well, even if it has wheels inside.”

Sir Hokus, though still a bit dizzy, hastened to wind up all the Copper Man’s keys.

“Thanks,” said Tik Tok immediately. “Give me a lift up, Ho-kus.” The Knight obligingly helped the Copper Man to his feet. Then both stared in amazement at the topsy turvy room. Even in the dim candle light they could see that something very serious had occurred.

Jack Pumpkinhead picked himself up out of a corner, looking very much dazed.

Just then Dorothy opened her eyes, and Betsy and Trot, spluttering from the water the Patch Work Girl was pouring on their heads, sat up and wanted to know what had happened. In a few words Ozma told them what the magic picture had revealed.

—shouted Scraps, who was growing more and more excited.

“Rug-ge-do will nev-er re-form,” ticked the Copper Man sadly.

“But what are we going to do?” wailed Dorothy. “Suppose he leans over and spills us all out?”

“I shall take my sword,” said Sir Hokus, speaking very determinedly, and backing toward the window as he spoke, “climb down, and slay the villain.” He threw one leg over the sill.

“Come back!” cried Ozma. “Dear Sir Hokus, don’t you realize that if you kill Ruggedo he will fall down and break us to pieces? Besides, wicked as he is, I could not have him killed.”

“Yes, we should be all broken up if you did that,” sighed the Scarecrow. “We must try something else.”

Reluctantly, the Knight dropped back into the room. “Close the windows,” ordered Ozma with a little shudder.

“I’ve thought of a plan,” said Tik Tok, in his slow, painstaking way. “A ve-ry good plan.”

“Tell us what it is,” begged Dorothy. “And Oh, Tik Tok, hurry!”

“Eggs,” said the Copper Man solemnly.

“Oh!” gasped Dorothy, “I remember. Eggs are the only things in Oz that Ruggedo is afraid of; for if an egg touches a gnome he shrivels up and disappears.”

“Then where are the eggs?” demanded Sir Hokus gloomily. “In faith, this sounds more like an omelet than a battle. But if we’re to fight with eggs instead of swords, let us draw them at once.”

“You mean throw them,” corrected Dorothy. But Tik Tok shook his head violently.

“Not throw them,” said the Copper Man slowly, “threat-en to throw them.”

“But how can we threaten a giant so far below us?” asked Ozma.

“Print a sign,” directed Tik Tok calmly, “and low-er it down to him.”

“Tik Tok,” cried the Scarecrow, rushing forward and embracing him impulsively, “your patent-action-double-guaranteed brains are marvels. I couldn’t have thought up a better plan myself.”

Now off ran Scraps to fetch a huge piece of cardboard, and the Scarecrow for a paint brush, and Sir Hokus for a piece of rope.

“It’s growing lighter,” quavered Trot, looking toward the windows. The sky was turning gray with little streaks of pink, and the three girls huddled together on the mattress gave a sigh of relief; for nothing, not even a giant, seems so bad by daylight.

“Perhaps someone has already started to help us,” said Ozma hopefully. “But here’s the sign board. What shall we write?”

“How shall I begin?” asked the Scarecrow, dipping the brush into a can of green paint. “Dear Ruggedo?”

“I should say not,” said Dorothy indignantly.

“Then I shall simply say, Sir,” said the Scarecrow.

“If you move or turn or shake your head a-gain, ten thou-sand eggs will be hurl-ed from the pal-ace windows,” suggested Tik Tok.

As this message met with general approval, the Scarecrow set it down with many flourishes and blotches of paint spilled between. Then Ozma painted her name and the Royal seal of Oz at the end.

Meanwhile, with the help of a pair of field glasses, Sir Hokus had located Ruggedo’s nose, sticking out like a huge cliff below the middle window of Dorothy’s room. So, tying a long rope to each corner of the sign, and rolling it up so it would go through the window, the Knight let it down till it dangled directly in front of Ruggedo’s nose.

At first Ruggedo did not even see the sign, which was about as large as the tiniest visiting card—compared to him. But it blew against his face and tickled his cheek. He tried to brush it away. Then, suddenly noticing it was dangling from above, he seized it in one hand and held it close to his left eye. The words were so small for a giant that Ruggedo had to squint fearfully before he could make them out at all, but when he did he gave a bloodcurdling scream, and began to tremble violently.

Up in the palace the entire company fell over and twenty windows were shaken to bits. Then everything grew quiet and there was perfect silence; for Ruggedo, realizing his danger, grew rigid with fright. Giant drops of perspiration trickled down his forehead. How long could he keep from moving?

“Well,” said Dorothy after a few minutes had passed, “I guess that will keep him quiet, but what next? Shall we let ourselves down with ropes?”

“We have none long enough,” said Sir Hokus.

“Then I’ll fall out and go for help,” said the Scarecrow brightly, and started toward the window. When he reached it he paused in astonishment. “Look,” he cried, waving excitedly to the others, “here comes someone, walking right over the clouds.”

Chapter 15
The Sand Man Takes a Hand

Someone was coming toward the palace. A little gray-cloaked old gentleman—a surprisingly quick and nimble old gentleman—springing from cloud to cloud and pausing now and then to straighten a huge sack he carried over his left shoulder. He was so busy admiring the lovely sky colors behind him and waving merrily at the fluffy cloud figures above his head, that he did not see Ozma’s shining palace until he was almost upon it.

“Stars!” murmured the little old gentleman, balancing perilously on the very edge of a silver cloud. “Another air castle! How delightful! I shall jump right through it!”

Gathering himself together he leaped straight toward the window out of which Dorothy and Ozma and the others were looking. With a soft thud he struck the emerald setting just above the window, and down tumbled his sack, opening as it fell and filling the air with clouds of silver sand. Down tumbled the little old gentleman, turning over and over, and finally landing on a blankety white cloud far below.

All of this Dorothy saw, and was about to ask Ozma what it could mean when an overpowering drowsiness stole over her. Before she could speak her eyes closed, and she sank backward into a big arm chair. Trot and Betsy Bobbin with two little sighs crumpled down to the floor. The head of Sir Hokus dropped heavily on the sill, and not even in Pokes had he snored so lustily. Ozma slipped gently down beside Betsy and Trot, and in a moment there was not a person awake in that whole big palace. Even the little mice in the kitchen were fast asleep, with heads on their paws.

Did I say everyone? Well, not quite everyone had fallen under the strange spell. Tik Tok, Scraps, and the Scarecrow, who had never slept in their lives, were still wide awake, and regarding their companions with astonishment and alarm. The Tin Woodman was taking things calmly, oiling up his joints and polishing his tin jacket with silver polish.

“This is no time to sleep,” cried the Scarecrow, shaking Sir Hokus. “I say—wake up!” But all their efforts to arouse their companions were in vain.

“En-chant-ment,” said the Copper Man. “Some—” With a click and a whirr Tik Tok’s machinery ran down, and as Scraps and the Scarecrow were too upset to think of winding him, he stood as silent and dumb as the rest.

“What shall we do?” cried the Scarecrow, seizing Scraps’ arm. “Jump out of the window and go for help, or stay here and guard the palace?”

Scraps looked out of the window. “Stay here,” shuddered the Patch Work Girl, drawing in her head quickly.