L. Frank Baum - Oz 27

by Ojo In Oz

  a queer but comfortable castle and clattering ahead of them up the blue tile steps the Dick with the queer collar banged open the door and bawled in an important voice:

  “Dickus the third, Dictator of Dicksy Land.” Then, bowing three times, he announced the others. “Three queers from strange parts, Your Excellency. A curling girl, a cotton-stuffed female, and the Cowardly Lion of Oz.”

  The Dictator of all the Dicks was young, thin and rather pleasant. When they entered he was sitting cross-legged on his throne reading Dickens, and putting his finger in the book to keep his place, he looked up inquiringly.

  “Just how queer are you?” he asked them in a tired voice.

  “Your Highness can see that for yourself,” said the Dick, jerking nervously at his collar. “We’re not queer at all,” declared Dorothy, jumping indignantly off the lion, and then to her corn-plete mortification and confusion, she curled right up like a jelly roll at the Dictator’s feet.

  “Well, well! I’ve never seen that done before,” observed the Dictator in a surprised voice, and as the Cowardly Lion and Scraps again flew to Dorothy’s rescue, he gazed from one to the other with

  keen interest and enjoyment. “Do you all promise to regard me as the supreme ruler of Dicksy Land and to obey the dictates of my office at all times and places?” he asked kindly.

  “I should say not!” panted Dorothy. By this time the Cowardly Lion and Scraps had her on her feet and with a very red face she returned the Dictator’s stare.

  “You won’t!” exclaimed the young ruler, throwing his book high in the air. You mean to say you defy me?” Springing to his feet he rushed excitedly from the chamber. “Reachard!” he shouted exultantly. “Reachard, come quick! I’ve been defied and set at nought! At last I have been defied!”

  CHAPTER 10

  The Long-Armed Reacher

  “HE’LL come right away all righty,” whispered the Dick with the queer collar, nudging Dorothy. “He’s the Dic’s Right Hand Man, he is!”

  “Right Hand Man! Right Hand Man!” twittered

  a couple of Dickey Birds hanging in a cage over his Excellency’s divan.

  “Well, now we’ve done it,,, worried Scraps, clasping her arms around the Cowardly Lion’s neck. The lion’s knees were trembling violently, but moving closer to little Dorothy he prepared to make a stand against all comers. A clatter of hoofs made him prick up his ears and Dorothy gave a little scream of alarm as Dickus, mounted on a great white horse, charged through the curtains at the back of the throne. Easily leaping the throne itself the royal charger came to an abrupt halt before the three adventurers, and with a nerve-shattering neigh began to paw the stone floor with his left fore foot. At the same time a tall fellow, wearing an immense cloak and sugar-loaf hat, stepped through the curtains and solemnly took his place at the horse’s head, regarding the visitors with stern and watchful eyes.

  “Here they are!” cried the Dictator, dropping the reins and folding his arms dramatically on his chest. “Do you still defy me?” he asked, thrusting one hand into his doublet and puffing out his cheeks.

  “Yes!” Dorothy spoke up boldly. “You see—”

  “Even on my white horse?” went on the Dictator, incredulously. “You defy me even on my white horse, in my best uniform and three-cornered hat

  with the gold feather? And these others, do they defy me, too?”

  “Yes,” rumbled the Cowardly Lion, beginning to enjoy himself thoroughly. “Since it gives your Excellency such pleasure. We all defy you, now, later and forever after. We cannot obey the dictates of your office, for we are already loyal subjects of Ozma of Oz and at present seeking far and near for a boy named Ojo who was carried off by gypsies.”

  “But stay long enough to arrange a little uprising,” begged the Dictator, in a pleading voice. “I’ve never been defied before and I assure you I find it most refreshing. How can I prove I’m a real Dictator unless I quell an uprising or put down a revolt? The trouble here is that no one ever revolts.”

  “How revolting,” murmured Scraps, ruffling up the Cowardly Lion’s mane. “But why pick US to revolute? we neither bite nor fight nor shoot!”

  “The lion could bite,” said Dickus, pulling in the white horse, who was making playful snatches at Scraps’, yarn hair.

  “Well, I won’t bite this time.” The lion waved his tail gently from left to right. “But thanks for asking me.”

  “Oh, that’s all right” Sliding wearily down from his white charger, the Dictator waved it wearily out of the room and sank back on his divan.

  “Do you want me to handle matters from now on?” questioned Reachard, bending almost double to whisper in the little ruler’s ear. Dickus nodded, looking at the same time so dreadfully disappointed that Dorothy felt sorry for him.

  “You must be a really good ruler never to have any revolutions,” she told him kindly.

  “Yes, do you mean to tell me every Dick in Dicksy Land is perfectly satisfied?” rumbled the Cowardly Lion, putting his head on one side and regarding the Dictator thoughtfully.

  “Perfectly satisfied,” sighed the Dictator gloomily. “That’s the queerest thing about them.”

  “This is a queer country,” giggled Scraps. “I’ll come back sometime and spend my life.”

  “Why go at all?” asked Dickus, brightening up at the Patchwork Girl’s reckless promise.

  “Oh, we have to go,” explained Dorothy quickly. “You see, Ojo is a great friend of ours and he may be in dreadful danger or trouble. Could your Excellency tell us how far we are from the Emerald City, now?”

  “You tell them, Reachard,” ordered the Dictator,.

  with a tired drawl.

  “The Emerald City is one forest and one mountain beyond,’,’ stated Reachard, with a precise bow.

  “Oh!” screamed Dorothy, while Scraps’ suspender button eyes made a complete revolution. No wonder, for Reachard’s hand and right arm, hidden till now under his long cloak, uncurled like a garden hose and with the arm still attached to the shoulder shot through the window and snapped out of view.

  “I see you are interested in my Right Hand Man,” observed Dickus, as the three travelers stared at Reachard in dumb amazement. “Well, he comes from the famous city of Reach, to the north of here, and like all the citizens of Reach can stretch his right arm in any direction for any number of miles, so that nothing is ever out of Reach for him or for me.” As the Dictator finished speaking, Reachard’s arm came flashing back, curling up and settling into a neat coil at his side. Grasped in the fingers of his large white hand was a green leaf he had evidently plucked from a garden in the Emerald City itself.

  “But how did you see to pick that leaf, with your head back here and your hand way off there?” cried Dorothy, jumping down from the lion’s back and staring up into Reachard’s face.

  “Quite simple,” smiled Reachard, extending his hand on its snake-like arm. “I have eyes in my fingers, you see.”

  “You are a handy man,” gulped the Cowardly Lion, trembling a little, for the five black eyes in the tips of Reachard’s fingers affected him most unpleasantly. “You can find anything, I suppose, even collar buttons.”

  “Well, I hope you are honest,” put in the Patchwork Girl saucily. “If not, where will we be, with a light-fingered fellow reaching in and out of our windows?”

  “Sh-h!” warned Dorothy, as Reachard drew back with an offended sniff. “I am sure he never touches anything that does not belong to him and I am sure he will show us the way to the Emerald City.”

  “That’s just what I was about to suggest,” proposed the Dictator, frowning at Scraps.

  “But why go back to the Emerald City when Ojo is somewhere around here?” objected the Patchwork Girl, with an impatient flounce.

  “Because,” Dorothy said, “it is not far, and once there we will have the Wizard’s wishing pills to help us. We are just wasting time wandering around this way.”

  “Right!” agreed the Cowardly Lion, swallowing />
  uncomfortably as the eye in Reachard’s middle finger gave him a broad wink. “And I think we had better start at once.”

  “Good-bye!” Reachard extended his left and perfectly usual hand to the Cowardly Lion. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you all.” His right arm slipped round and round them like the slippery coils of a snake. Controlling her fright and dismay as best she could, Dorothy waited for Reachard to let them go and point the way to the capital. This he did almost at once, and after thanking the little Dictator heartily for his kindness, Scraps, Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion followed the white hand and slowly unwinding arm of his Right Hand Man out of the castle, through the queer country of the Dicks on to a broad and beautifully shaded highway. “I hope he hasn’t got ears in his thumbs,” whispered the Cowardly Lion, as he stepped carefully along under the undulating arm of Reachard.

  “He doesn’t seem to have,” answered Dorothy, leaning far out to the side to examine the curious hand of their obliging guide. “But suppose we want to stop and rest or have something to eat. What then? Will it stop and wait, or go on without us?”

  “Oh, let’s wait till we do stop before we bother

  about that,” advised the lion, trotting along contentedly. “Hello! What now?” The hand, making a little dive to the right, disappeared a moment and came out presently with a large and delicious peach which it politely handed down to Dorothy. Then chucking Scraps good-naturedly under the cotton chin, it resumed its position over their heads.

  “Why, I wouldn’t mind a Right Hand Man my own self,” muttered the lion, beaming with appreciation and interest. “Is that a mountain ahead, my dears?”

  “A mountain to mount and a mountain to climb,

  As it’s high, rough and steep, it will take us some time,”

  sang Scraps, and reaching up she caught the arm of their guide and swung herself gaily along by her hands. Then, dropping into her place on the Cowardly Lion’s back, she began to plait her yarn hair.

  Although the mountain at first glance had seemed quite near, it took them all morning and a good part of the afternoon to reach the base. And during this time, Reachard’s hand not only guided them, but opened gates, brushed aside troublesome branches and assisted them in every manner possible. Passing through a small village it picked up sandwiches for Dorothy, meat pies for the Cowardly Lion and all

  manner of other refreshing delicacies, including a string of red beads for Scraps. Dorothy was a little worried at the thought of taking things without paying for them. But the shop-keepers in the village were so interested and excited to see a moving arm and a hand with eyes in its fingers that they pressed even more goodies and gifts upon the travelers and ran shouting and cheering after them so that it was a positive relief when they had left the village behind and found themselves again in the open country.

  “I do wish we had discovered Ojo first,” sighed Dorothy regretfully. “Wouldn’t he have loved all

  this?”

  “Maybe he is having adventures too,” puffed the Cowardly Lion, for he was beginning to feel terribly tired. “G-girls! I’ll have to stop and rest before we tackle that mountain. I’m perfectly punctured!”

  “What about the hand?” asked Dorothy, as the Cowardly Lion stopped dead in his tracks and waited for them to alight.

  “If it goes on, it will have to go without me,” yawned the lion, flinging himself wearily under a pin cushion tree at the side of the road. The hand did go on for several yards, then looking back (and how

  comical that does sound) it paused and seeing they~ had stopped, waved quite gaily, shot up into the branches of the pin cushion tree and closing its eyes went to sleep, its arm coiling round and round the tree trunk like a serpent. Scraps and Dorothy, after watching it a few moments, sat down to rest.

  “First time I ever saw a hand go to sleep,” murmured the Patchwork Girl, picking up a ripe pin cushion that had fallen from the tree, and sticking pins in herself for something to do.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” yawned Dorothy, stretching out comfortably with her head in Scraps’ lap. “My hand often goes to sleep and so does my foot. Keep watch for us, will you, Scraps dear, I didn’t realize how terribly sleepy I was.”

  “If you were cotton-stuffed like me you would not be bothered with such nonsense,” sniffed the Patchwork Girl in a scornful voice. “But sleep away, I’ll look after you.” Leaning her head against the tree trunk, Scraps hummed a little tune to herself and began to think of all the strange adventures she and Ojo had had on their first trip to the Emerald City. Dorothy must have dozed several hours, for when she opened her eyes it was night and the whole sky was bright with stars. Five of them seemed particularly close and a persistent clicking in Dorothy’s

  ears made her sit up quickly. At this the five stars seemed to swoop right down upon her. With a little gasp of fright she pressed closer to Scraps. Then she gave a laugh of relief. What she had taken for stars were the five gleaming eyes of Reachard’s hand and it was snapping its fingers impatiently under her nose.

  “I suppose it wants us to go on,” whispered Dorothy.

  “Seems to me it’s pretty bossy,” exclaimed the Patchwork Girl, as Dorothy ran over to waken the Cowardly Lion. “Does it expect us to climb a mountain in the dark?”

  “Why, it’s almost as light as day,” said Dorothy, as the Cowardly Lion, wakened by their voices, rolled over and opened one eye. The hand seemed to be in a great hurry and after waiting a few seconds for Dorothy and Scraps to mount the lion, it swooped suddenly down upon them.

  “Don’t! Stop! Mind what you’re about!” roared the Cowardly Lion angrily, for Reachard’s arm had gone round and round them, tieing them up like a Christmas package. Now it rose and went snapping briskly through the cool evening air.

  “I g-guess it wants to get back to Dicksy Land,”

  stuttered Dorothy. “Oh, dear, do you suppose we’ll have to go the whole way to the Emerald City like

  this?”

  “What’s the difference?” mumbled Scraps, for her head was almost buried in the lion’s thick mane. “It’s better than mountain climbing.”

  “Better!” raged the lion, speaking through tightly closed teeth. “That Reachard will hear from me for this! If I ever get my mouth open again I’ll fix this meddlesome hand of his.” In vain the lion squirmed about, trying to poke his head between the rubbery coils of the flying arm.

  “What, bite the hand that leads thee?” reproved Scraps, who was rather enjoying the experience. But talking proved so difficult under the circumstances, and the speed at which they traveled was so terrific that they finally lapsed into silence. After twenty minutes of~zipping, as Dorothy described the adventure later to Ozma, Reachard’s arm suddenly relaxed and slid them gently to the ground. The moon had gone under a cloud, but by the starlight they could see that they were on the broad top of a high blue mountain. The hand, on its limber arm, was evidently bent on looking around and was rustling through the tree tops overhead. With one accord the three comrades made a dive for a small

  hut in the exact center of the mountain top.

  “I’d rather be left than right, or go through again,” roared the Cowardly Lion, streaking toward the lighted windows of the little house. The door, fortunately, was open, and rushing inside, closely followed by Scraps and Dorothy, the lion banged it shut with his tail. At the noise of their entrance a bent and evil-looking old Munchkin, sitting at a small table under a lamp in the center of the room, turned around blinking with astonishment. The hut, Dorothy noted with a quick glance, was simply crammed and crowded with clocks. Big clocks, little clocks, grandfather clocks, grandmother clocks, aunt and uncle clocks, all ticking and tock-ing away at a furious rate.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded the clock maker, jumping up frQm his bench. “Ah, I know!” He raised his finger craftily. “You have brought the boy and come to claim the reward. Come, where is he? Have you got him outside?”

  “What are you talking about?”
panted the Cowardly Lion, sitting down on his haunches.

  “Ojo!” hissed the clock maker, tiptoeing stealthily toward them. “Quick, give him to me and the five thousand bags of sapphires shall be yours!”

  “Ojo? Sapphires?” gasped Dorothy, tripping over a wooden stool in her surprise and excitement. “Why, we are looking for Ojo ourselves. He’s been stolen by gypsies and we have been sent to find him.”

  “So-oo!” Rubbing his hands unpleasantly together and nodding his head like a mandarin, the clock maker looked from one to the other. “So, you are friends of this little Munchkin and think perhaps to help him? Well; I am Mooj, the Clock Maker. Ho, ho! Stay here and you will see Ojo soon enough. You would like to spend a little time with me, yes?” The old fellow’s tone made Dorothy shiver, and the Cowardly Lion faced the clock maker with an angry growl. “What do you know about Ojo?” he demanded with bared teeth. “Quick, speak up, or I’ll swallow you whole!” The lion trembled violently as he spoke, but kept moving closer to Mooj. “If you swallow me whole, that will be very unwholesome for you. You will have inside informa-ion, yes? But what good will that do you?” Grinning provokingly the old Munchkin fearlessly stood his ground. “Inside information is not so good as outside information. Sit down, and hear my story.” “Well, make it short!” The Cowardly Lion put back his ears and lashed his tail impatiently. “in other words, be brief!”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Mysterious Clock Maker

  WAVING his visitors to a rough bench, Mooj seated himself on a high stool and whittling away at a bit of dark wood began to speak.

  “As I told you before,” stated the old man grum~ ily, “I am a clock maker.”

  “But why make clocks on top of a mountain?” shouted Scraps, raising her voice above the ticking and striking of the old Munchkin’s products.