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 Dprothy. “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-l0-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 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 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 tuo! Teg tuo! Teg tuo!”
“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. Tuo teg, yourselves,” he shouted defiantly, as the woodsmen drew nearer, “and none of your back talk either!”
“Back talk!” cried Dorothy, clutching him suddenly by the sleeve. “Oh, that’s just what they are talking, Humpy. They’re talking ‘back talk.’ Wait a minute!” Closing her eyes, Dorothy began writing imaginary letters in the air and, as the two woodsmen reached them, she burst out triumphantly, “It says ‘The Back Woods’ on that flag. Oh dear, I wished we were back and now we are!”
“You think awful fast,” blinked the dummy admiringly. “The mere look of that language makes me dizzy. So they’re talking back talk are they? Well, what do they say? Are they going to hit us?”
“They’re telling us to go away, muttered Dorothy, putting her fingers in her ears, for the two leaders had been joined by a hundred more and all were screaming at the top or rather, I should say, the bottom of their voices. They kept their backs to the travellers and shouted the dreadful back talk over their shoulders. They all carried gleaming axes and, when Dorothy made an atte
mpt to advance, they brandished them threateningly.
“If I could only talk back,” wailed the little girl, “I’d tell them I am a Princess. Then maybe they’d let me through.”
“Couldn’t you write it?” suggested Humpy, looking at the angry horde with growing alarm.
“Why, how did you think of that?” Dorothy stared at him in honest amazement. Then, feeling in her pocket, she brought out a stub of pencil and a crumpled piece of paper. The woodsmen watched her curiously over their shoulders as she slowly wrote her message.
“I ma Ssecnirp Yhtorod, dneirf fo Amzo fo Zo. Yam ew ssap hguorht ruoy sdoow?” printed Dorothy after a great many pauses and erasures. Rather timidly she handed it to one of the flag bearers and after a great scowling and head-shaking, the woodsmen raised their axes and shouted in chorus,
“Sey! Sey!”
“That means ‘yes’,” breathed Dorothy, taking Humpy’s arm. “C’mon, let’s hurry, before they change their minds.” The woodsmen parted solemnly to make a path, but when they reached the backwoods itself, Dorothy took one step and was immediately flung upon her nose.
“Ah, I see you do your own falling,” mumbled the dummy. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” Humpy was several paces behind Dorothy and as he spoke, he also attempted to enter the woods. But the same hidden force pushed him over backwards. Immediately the inhabitants of Back began to roar
with delight, and if you have never heard anyone roaring backwards, you have no idea how horrid it sounds. It was something between a, cough and a choke. Even the dummy knew that he was being insulted, and waved his arms about indignantly.
L. Frank Baum - Oz 19 Page 7
