L. Frank Baum - Oz 20

by The Hungry Tiger Of Oz

  “Let Reddy keep his ruby till danger threatens,” advised the Hungry Tiger sternly. “I’m not going to have him sliced and broken if I can help it.” And he flashed his yellow eyes so threateningly that the barber and singer fell back in confusion.

  “But wasn’t it lucky we met Carter!” exclaimed Betsy, as the Vegetable Man slipped the ruby into Evered’s pocket. “And if the King of Down lives in this city, and can just show us the way up, maybe we can find the other rubies and-”

  “Something to eat,” roared the Hungry Tiger, breaking into a quick step.

  “When I’m the Pasha, you shall have anything you wish,” promised the little Prince, smiling sideways at Carter Green. “You can be Keeper of Kites and Marbles if you want, Betsy shall be Queen, and the Hungry Tiger all the rest of the nobility.”

  “Thanks,” muttered the Hungry Tiger, grinning behind his whiskers. He knew that if he ever reached Oz in safety, nothing could tempt him away from the Emerald City again, not even his terrible appetite.

  “But what do the three R’s stand for?” asked Carter. He had been turning the matter over in

  his mind for some time.

  “Readin’, ritin’, and rithmetic,” guessed Betsy Bobbin.

  “Rightful Ruler of Rash,” corrected Reddy, with a cheerful bounce. Now that one of the magic rubies was in his possession anything seemed possible. “Hurry up!” he called over his shoulder to the Rash barber and singer. “We’re almost there.” And they almost were, for beyond a thin fringe of feather brush rose the high buildings and towers of the city they had seen in the moonlight. The trip across the fields of Down had been rather tiresome. The feet of the travellers sank at each step into the soft feathers, so that even the Hungry Tiger was panting a little when they reached the city itself. Over the gates, creaking backward and forward in the brisk morning breeze, was a large silver sign.

  “Down Town,” read Betsy, squinting a little in the bright sunshine. “Why, it looks just like down town at home, Carter.”

  “Home in Oz?” quened the Vegetable Man, pressing his nose against the bars.

  “No, in Oklahoma!” laughed Betsy hastily. “But let’s go in. I see stores and hotels and everything!”

  “Hotels?” gulped the Hungry Tiger, pricking up his ears. “Hotels! B-r-r-r!” And before Betsy or anyone else could stop him, he had hurled himself headlong at the gates of Down Town. With a creak and bang, they burst open and the whole Rash company fell through.

  “Food!” roared the Hungry Tiger, charging at full speed down the main street. “Give us food!” At the tiger’s roars, such citizens as were in the streets stopped in horror and astonishment. Then, right and left like startled hares, they darted, huddling into doorways, scurrying into side alleys, tumbling over one another in their frenzy to get away. In fact they were as amazed and terrified to see a tiger in their Down Town, as we would be to see one in ours, and when they glimpsed Carter Green, they ran faster than ever.

  “Stop!” shouted Betsy, flinging both arms around the tiger’s neck to keep from falling off. “You’re scaring everyone away. Stop! Here’s a restaurant!”

  But the Hungry Tiger had already seen the tempting display of pies and roast turkey in the window. Turning so sharply that the Prince of Rash tumbled off backward, he rushed through the swinging doors and next minute they had the establishment to themselves. One look at the Hungry Tiger had been enough for the early morning customers. Grabbing their hats, and without waiting for their change, they pelted out the rear door of the shop, followed by three waiters and the screaming proprietor.

  “Oh, well,” sighed Betsy, helping herself capably to a spring chicken that was turning slowly on a spit, “if they won’t stay to wait on us, we must just help ourselves.”

  “What fun!” chuckled Reddy, burying his nose in a cherry tart, while the barber and sad singer divided a huge sausage between them. The Vegetable Man, not requiring food, busied himself with counting the oranges and apples in the window and wondered wistfully whether he could not find a cart somewhere and stir up some trade.

  But it was the Hungry Tiger who enjoyed himself most of all. At one side of the room a dozen roasts were waiting their turn at the ovens. These, the famished tiger snapped up in so many bites. After his long fast in Rash, they tasted perfectly delicious and, while Reddy looked at him in astonishment and admiration, he swallowed three roast turkeys, a bowl of potato salad and a tray full of biscuits. He was just starting on a huge ham, when a commotion in the doorway made them all spin round. It was the proprietor, and with him were twenty tall officers.

  They had a great net, and as the Hungry Tiger gave a convulsive swallow, they flung it over him and dragged the huge beast, the singer, the barber, Betsy, the Vegetable Man, and the little Prince of Rash out into the street.

  “Robbers!” screamed the proprietor savagely, as they were hustled away. “Wait till Dad hears

  of this.”

  “Why don’t you bite them?” wailed Betsy, trying to wriggle out of the grasp of the officer who had her by the arm.

  “Too full,” mumbled the Hungry Tiger in a stuffy voice. “Couldn’t eat another bite, not even a policeman. But it was worth it and who’s afraid of Dad? We’ve been arrested before and gotten away. We’ll get off somehow, trust me.

  “Maybe the ruby will help,” said the little Prince, squirming about so he could see Betsy. Carter, on the other side, gave her such an encouraging wink that the little girl stopped worrying and began to look around with real interest. Down Town, as Betsy had said in the first place, was quite like other down towns, except that there were no motors nor wagons and the men who crowded the streets were gaily costumed in green and yellow bills. Four of the Down Officers had hold of the net entangling the Hungry Tiger, one officer had hold of each of the others and the rest tramped importantly ahead of the procession.

  “Who’s Dad?” asked Betsy, as they were propelled through the swinging doors of a large white bank.

  “The King,” answered the officer haughtily.

  “Is he a kind King?” sniffed the sad singer nervously. “What kind of a King is Dad. Will he make us happy or make us sad?”

  “You’ll soon see,” grunted the officer, pushing him roughly into an elevator. The others were thrust as unceremoniously after him, the car shot upward and the next minute they were all marched out upon the roof. In a swivel chair on top of the bank, sat Dad. He was reading a paper and beside him on a high stool sat the most curious lady Betsy had ever seen.

  “Their Majesties the King and Queen of Down Town!” boomed the officer, who had hold of Betsy Bobbin. “Robbers, your Highness!” he announced with a low bow.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Indus Tree

  AT the officer’s ringing words, King Dad lowered his paper, and as he got a good look at the Hungry Tiger, his chair fell forward with a crash.

  “A tiger, Nance!” stuttered Dad, rolling his eyes wildly at the Queen.

  “But it’s tied,” answered the Queen of Down Town calmly. “What are the charges officer?”

  “Ninety-nine dollars and sixty-eight cents,” answered the officer hoarsely, and leaning over he handed Dad a long slip of paper.

  “But we only wanted a little breakfast,” began Betsy tremulously, “and

  “A little breakfast!” wheezed Dad, and putting on his specs started to read off the list:

  “Twelve roasts, Four turkeys, One spring chicken, Three dozen tarts, Fourteen doughnuts One ham and twenty-four biscuits, Three quarts of potato salad, One six-pound sausage.”

  “Monstrous!” muttered the Queen, tapping her foot indignantly on the floor. “They shall pay well for this.”

  “Why, that’s a mere bite for a fellow like me,” rumbled the Hungry Tiger, impatiently, “and I ate most of it.”

  “Wh-who are you?” demanded Dad, holding on to the arms of his chair and blinking nervously at the great beast.

  “I am the Hungry Tiger of Oz, and these are my friends. We are o
n our way to the Emerald City. This little girl is Betsy Bobbin and allow me to present the Vegetable Man and the Pasha of-”

  “Your tale drags,” yawned her Majesty, fanning herself with her handkerchief. “Cut it short. Time is money down here and the thing for you to do is to pay up and settle down.”

  “How clearly you put things,” murmured Dad, looking affectionately at his Queen. Betsy had been staring at Her Highness in perfect astonishment, for she was made entirely of money. Her face and hair were of purest gold, her hands and feet of silver and her dress was made from hundreds of yellow bills that crinkled crisply when she moved. Yet, with all her glitter and brilliance, she seemed to Betsy the hardest and most disagreeable being she had ever met. Dad himself looked kind and care-worn, resembling vaguely many of the daddies Betsy had known in the United States. If he had just decided things for himself and not depended so much upon the Queen, Betsy would have liked him better.

  “Well, are you ready to pay up?” asked Dad, looking from one to the other of the travellers. “Ninety-nine dollars and sixty-eight cents, please.”

  “But we haven’t any money,” explained Betsy breathlessly. “We started off in such a hurry

  and-”

  “You should not have come Down Town if you had no money,” muttered Dad reprovingly.

  “How dare you be without money?” cried the Queen, springing up in a perfect fury. “How dare you come Down Town without money?”

  “Now, don’t get frenzied, Fi Nance,” begged Dad, patting her anxiously on the hand. “They can easily make some money, you know.” His words seemed to soothe the Queen.

  “That’s so,” she mused thoughtfully. “Anybody can make money Down Town, if they just try hard enough.” Almost pleasantly she turned to Betsy. “You, my child,” purred the Queen, resuming her seat, “you, may start as a cash girl. I myself was a cash girl once,” she went on dreamily, “and now look at me-Fi Nance, Queen of Down Town. I’m simply made of money!”

  Betsy looked, and shuddered a little as she did so. She was about to tell the Queen that she had no desire to be a cash girl, when Fi Nance haughtily held up her hand for silence. “The lad shall be an office boy,” she decided imperiously. “Who did you say he was?”

  “A Prince,” growled the Hungry Tiger.

  “A dry goods store will be the best place for him,” murmured Dad. “What can you two do?” he demanded, looking over his specs at the barber and sad singer of Rash.

  “Anything! Anything!” whined the frightened prisoners, bumping their heads together in their anxiety to please.

  “Pooh!” sniffed Dad scornfully. “That means nothing whatsoever.”

  “Shampoo?” suggested the barber hopefully. “Let me give your Highness a little shave and hair

  cut.”

  “Are you a barber?” asked Dad, looking at the Rasher with more interest. “If you’re a barber, you can stay and welcome. There’s always room for another barber, Down Town.”

  “Thank you! Thank you! If your majesty will permit-” The barber bowed apologetically to the Prince of Rash, “I will remain here. I have always wanted to make money,” he acknowledged frankly.

  “Me too!” gulped the sad singer eagerly.

  “I’ve sung until I’m hoarse, in Rash, And never earned a cent in cash!”

  “He has a voice like a horse,” whispered Dad, in a loud aside to the Queen.

  “He sings like a jack-ass!” agreed Her Majesty readily. “But let him stay. Any kind of a noise goes, Down Town. Now as to these others?” She rolled her golden eyes in perplexity and disapproval at the Vegetable Man and the Hungry Tiger; then evidently giving them up, cried in a loud voice, “The audience is over and the prisoners are discharged. Let them make some money, pay up and settle down.”

  “Well, goodbye!” smiled Dad, picking up his paper with a sigh of relief. “If you don’t like the positions we have chosen for you, go down to the square and choose some others. Take them to the public square!” he ordered, waving at the officers.

  So, much to Betsy’s and the little Prince’s amusement, they were all hurried into the elevator, out of the bank and marched along the streets of the city. A curious sign on the first corner puzzled Betsy very much.

  “Down Town belongs to the Daddies,” said the sign severely, “No aunts, mothers or sisters

  allowed.”

  “Why, anybody can go down town at home,” exclaimed the little girl in surprise.

  “I noticed there were no ladies about,”

  The Indus Tree observed Carter in an amused voice. “The Daddies have it all their own way

  here.”

  As they passed along, Betsy looked curiously in the windows of the shops and offices and saw that everywhere the Dads were making money. Some were making money out of leather, some were making money out of oil and some were even making money out of old papers and rags. It looked quite simple.

  “But there must be some trick to it,” she whispered hurriedly to the Prince of Rash. “I hope we don’t have to stay here long. I won’t be a cash girl.”

  Prince Evered nodded emphatically, for he had no intention of becoming an office boy. Just then they came to the public square and were marched solemnly through the gates.

  “Pick your tools and get started,” ordered the first officer gruffly, and grumbling a little among themselves, because the prisoners had got off so easily, the twenty tall Downsmen tramped noisily back to their station. As soon as they had gone, the barber, with his razor, released the Hungry Tiger from the net.

  “I wonder what they meant about tools,” murmured Betsy, staring all around her. “Why what an enormous tree!” It stood in the center of the square, spreading out in every direction, its branches weighed down with a most curious collection of objects. There was a small notice tacked on the trunk and Evered and Betsy Bobbin hurried over to investigate.

  “Indus Tree,” read the sign. “Pick your trade, business or profession here.”

  “Well, I’ve often heard of the big industries,” gasped Carter Green, squinting up through the branches, “but I never knew they looked like this. If we are to stay Down Town, I suppose we had better pick our business at once.

  “Stay if you want to,” rumbled the Hungry Tiger impatiently. “My business is to see that Betsy Bobbin gets safely back to Oz and to restore Reddy to his throne. I, for my part, am going to leave as soon as I can find an exit.”

  “Maybe they won’t let us,” faltered Betsy, looking uneasily over her shoulder. But the Daddies were not paying the slightest attention to the little group in the square and, greatly relieved, they turned back to the Indus Tree.

  “Some of these things might prove useful, even if we did not remain here,” muttered Carter.

  “Why, there’s a razor!” shouted the Rash barber in delight, and springing into the air, he snapped it off the lower branch and began to finger it lovingly.

  “I’d take that harp, if I could just reach it,” sighed the sad singer, looking wistfully aloft.

  “I’ll pick it for you,” offered Prince Evered obligingly, and swinging up into the tree he broke the harp from its stem and dropped it into the singer’s arms.

  “See anything you want, Betsy?” called the little Prince, and pushing aside a cluster of paint brushes, he peered down at her expectantly. But with so many things to choose from, it was hard to decide. There were thimbles and shears, bottles of ink, hammers, saws, buckets and mops, brooms and hoes, music rolls, miners’ caps, rolling pins, cook books, compasses and ship models-everything in fact

  that a body would need to work with.

  While Reddy was waiting for Betsy to make up her mind, his curiosity carried him higher and higher into the branches. Carter, too, walked round and round the base of the tree, shaking his head and exclaiming from time to time with surprise and astonishment. But the Hungry Tiger had small use for a tree that produced nothing to eat, nor was he interested in money or making money. So, while the others examined the marv
elous tree, he began looking for a way out, and presently was rewarded, for in the far corner of the square were steps leading down into what seemed to be a tunnel. Stretching his neck cautiously about the doorway, the Hungry Tiger spied some directions.

  “Take the subway here for Up Town,” said a sign.

  “Here! Here! I’ve found a way out!” roared the Hungry Tiger joyfully.

  “What kind of a way?” cried Carter, stum-bling over the wheelbarrow he had just plucked from the Indus Tree.

  “A subway!” puffed the tiger. “Tell the rest of ‘em, quick!”

  “Come on! Come on!” cried Carter waving to the others. “The Hungry Tiger has found some

  way out.”

  “I said, ‘subway!’ ” growled the tiger a bit temperishly. “Are you going to take that thing along with you?” The Vegetable Man looked lovingly at the wheelbarrow.

  “It was the nearest thing to a cart I could find,” he murmured sadly, “and will come in very handy if I pick up some vegetables or fruit. So will this.” He patted a small spade that had grown on the same branch with the wheelbarrow. “Hello, here they come now!” At Carter’s cries, the little Prince of Rash, who had been trying to decide between a policeman’s club and a sword, plucked the sword and came crashing to earth, followed by several bottles of ink and an ironing board.

  “I may have to fight for my Kingdom,” he told Betsy importantly, “and this sword will help.” Betsy nodded understandingly, and without waiting to pick anything for herself she ran over to the