Now should you ever, like Dan, some day visit the Valley of Tick Tock, and, reaching the plaza that lies in the very center of Micetown, take eleven steps to the east and then ten to the south, you would, like as not, come upon a vine-covered mound something of the width, the shape and the height of a haycock. And were you to thrust the vines to one side, you would find that they covered the face of two wooden doors, so fashioned and hinged as to part in the middle. But did you seek to open them to learn what might be concealed underneath, you would discover that something forbade you to do so. And after you had tugged, and then tugged again, and probably said “Oh, dear,” at your failure, you would seek out the reason and find it to be a stout and wholly unyielding lock.

But this is something with which you will doubtless never contend. Not that you will never visit the valley, but because, if you do, you will most likely be accompanied as was Diggeldy Dan. For, at the end of the day and the first hours of the night spent in journeys to Stubbleton, Dorton and Nightsville, the clown found himself marching toward this very same knoll that has been described as resembling a haycock.

What a marvelous multitude attended him! Of course there were the dragoons, and there were the bands, and there were the mayors,—all four of them. The latter now rode in splendid corncob carriages, drawn by mice in harness and plumes and driven by others with cockades on their hats. At the rear and both sides walked mice in such numbers, and so packed together, that as Dan looked down on them it seemed as though the very ground was in motion. And when, now and then, the vast procession came to a pause—as processions are likely to do—there was not the slightest bit of confusion. This was because every mouse instantly stepped on the tail of that mouse who walked just in front of him and so held him quite fast just as he, in turn, was held in his tracks by the one who came to a halt right behind him.

Nearly all had brought lamps. These were not carried but were fastened to the caps that all of them wore. This gave the throng a most picturesque look. It made Dan think of a torchlight procession and, again, of the lights that jewel a town when one views it from some distant hillside. Just why the mice had been provided with lamps Dan could not guess; for the moon now floated high in the skies and flooded every inch of the way. But he was soon to find out, for it was not long before the mayors drew up in the lee of the knoll that looked so much like a haycock. Up the vines went the dragoons and, pulling this way and that, quickly bared the two doors to full view. Next Mayor Mouser and his companions alighted. Looking back, Dan saw that all the attending throng were standing upon each other’s tails as though awaiting some momentous event.

“Advance to the portals, Diggeldy Dan!” cried Mayor Mouser, as he waved toward the tightly locked doors. With two strides the clown stood before them.

“You have the key?”

“Right here in my hand,” Dan made haste to reply, as he held the object on high that all might observe it.

“Then, be it known to you that that which you hold is the key to the underground passage—the passage that leads to the Clock.

“Are we all ready?” called Mayor Mouser, as he leaped to the seat of his carriage the better to look back across the vast sea of faces that stretched for yard after yard down the avenue.

“Yes, yes!” answered a thousand and one voices as their owners danced with impatience upon a thousand and one tails.

“Then, Dan—open the doors!”

At this command the clown dropped to both knees. Quickly he thrust the key in the lock and turned it as swiftly with a twist to the right. As he did so the dragoons swung the two doors apart. And there, before him, and leading into the knoll, was a tunnel as black as the darkest of nights.

Into this curious passage leaped the van of the column, waving bright torches high overhead. The bands followed after and next came the mayors—all four of them—marching abreast.

Now Dan had sunk down on his knees when he unlocked the doors and so was quite in a position to enter the passage—not walking upright, as you may well suppose, but moving along on “all fours.”

Down, down and still downward they all traveled. Around and around they all wound their way. Now and then the passage opened into galleries of considerable size. Still other tunnels branched into these and from out of them trooped yet other mice to join in the endless procession.

“They are those who have entered the tunnels that join this larger one as it winds under Dorton, Stubbleton and Nightsville,” Beader explained. “But we have passed the last galleries and will soon be in the Great Room. You may even now be able to see the lights up ahead.”

And Dan could. There, far beyond and above the heads of the mice that marched in front of him, was a faint yellow glow. This grew brighter and wider as they advanced. Then, two minutes after, the column entered the room that Beader had promised.

The Great Room was quite big enough to allow Dan to stand upright. Its walls formed an oblong and along these walls were an almost countless number of balconies to the railings of which scores of torches were fixed. Dozens upon dozens of tiny stairways ran from the balconies while still other flights connected the higher ones with those that were under them. The room had no furnishings. Its floor was of stone and worn almost to a polish as though it had been visited time after time by thousands after thousands of feet.

Having observed this much, Dan looked overhead. It was then he discovered that the room had no ceiling. At first he thought he was peering into the skies, so deep was the gloom up above. But, try as he would, no stars could he see nor yet so much as a glint of the moon. Indeed, there was nothing but the rather dim outline of a most confusing something that swung first to right and then to the left like the pendulum that sways in a clock.

“Like the pendulum that sways in a clock,” puzzled Dan, as he put his thoughts into words. “Why is it a pendulum!”

Even as he spoke his ears detected the steady “tick-tock, tick-tock” that he had heard when he first entered the valley. And the sound came from a point right over his head! Now he knew; now his eyes, grown accustomed to the gloom, told him he was right. He was looking up into the great tower—the tower that he had seen with its head thrust through the trees. And, as if to favor the watcher, the moon at that moment sent some of its beams through a chink at the top, plainly disclosing whole mazes of wheels and two hands of tremendous size. The hour lacked but five minutes of one!

“Yes,” said Beader, who had by this time mounted to Dan’s ruff, “the Great Room is directly under the Clock. And now if you will stand right where you are you will see and hear all that takes place. That’s my balcony up yonder and I must be getting over to it at once.”

Away he scampered and as he did so Dan saw that all the mice were mounting the stairways and climbing to the balconies that bordered the room. In the largest of these, at the center of the topmost tier, a choir was being formed. One who seemed to be the leader gave the pitch now and then by blowing upon a stalk of wheat. Then, at a signal, the chorus began:

These same words were chanted over and over and over again, but with many changes of melody. As the chorus rang through the Great Room, Dan saw that those in the balconies were standing on very tiptoes, as if eager to be off to he knew not where. Suddenly more words were added to the song:

“The mice ran up the clock,” sang the voices. Instantly the air seemed filled with flying mice. From every balcony they sprang—mayors, dragoons, band-mice, and all—leaping upon the great pendulum that swung across the width of the room. And, reaching it, up the great shaft they went—upward into the very tower of the Clock. There were those who missed when they jumped. But these picked themselves up in a twinkling, dashed back to the balconies and once more leaped for the pendulum. Now, all others gone, the singers followed their fellows until, at last, only Dan remained in the Great Room.

came the far-away voices of the chorus.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock,” sang the Clock in reply.

Then it gave forth a great “bur-r-r-rr” that shook the tower to its very base.

“The clock struck one,” chorused the choir.

“Boom!” went the Clock.

“The mice ran down—” began the singers. But whether the verse was completed Dan could not tell. For, at the boom of “One” the mice fairly rained into the Great Room. Down they came, laughing, tumbling, racing and scrambling pell-mell—all bound for the tunnel that led to the knoll. Into the passage they went, some riding on the backs of their comrades or smaller ones clinging fast to the tails of those who were larger and swifter than they. Last of all came the mayors holding tight to their hats. With such speed did all travel that the echo of “One” had hardly completed its rounds of the tower when the Great Room was empty. Yet not quite empty for, as Dan turned to follow, there came a patter of feet near his own. It was Beader who had returned to escort him back through the passage.

“Wasn’t it fun!” cried the red-coated dragoon as the two of them entered the tunnel.

“Fun!” answered Dan, “why it’s more than that—it’s a story! What a tale I shall have to tell when I get back to the menagerie tent! But, now that I have my story, I suppose I should be returning to the corn patch where we first met, for it may be that the Pretty Lady will be waiting to carry me back to Spangleland.”

“Then we will take this passage to the left,” said Beader. “It will bring us out but a few steps from there.” So the two pressed forward with no light to guide them save the wee lamp that the dragoon wore in his cap. Suddenly Beader stopped.

“I heard it, too,” chimed Dan. “It was a neigh! The White-White Horse must be near the mouth of the passage. Come, let us hurry.”

Soon they were standing in the moonlight and there, sure enough, was the one with the Blue-Blue Eyes.

“I knew you were coming,” she said. “I could hear your voices under the ground. But now you must bid Beader farewell, else we will never reach the circus by dawn.”

“A good-by and no end of thanks to you, Friend Beader,” exclaimed Dan.

“A good-by to you, Diggeldy Dan,” the dragoon cried warmly, as the clown sprang to his seat. “And do come and visit us again some day.”

“Indeed, I shall try,” called Dan in return as the White-White Horse started off down the slope. And looking back he could see that Beader had mounted to the top of a cornstalk. There he stood, waving his plumed cap over his head, his red coat a bright spot in the moonlight.

Soon the hoofs of the White-White Horse began to play a soft tattoo on the turf and the Pretty Lady’s laugh to ring merrily in tune with it. But these sounds could not shut out another that Dan fancied still filled the air. It seemed to come from the fast receding valley, growing fainter and fainter and fainter, yet still saying, “Tick-took, tick-tock, tick-took.”

So we will leave Dan here—leave him as he is being carried back to the great menagerie tent where (you may be very sure) he told every wee bit of the tiniest part of his adventure to the animals who awaited his coming. “And, after that?” you no doubt are asking, “did he return to see Beader? Or ever again go adventuring with Gray Ears, the Elephant? And the Pretty Lady with the Blue-Blue Eyes; did she carry more of the animals into the wide wide world on the White-White Horse? And did Dan—”