L. Frank Baum - Oz 18 Page 3

  “But I thought wizards were not allowed to practice magic in Oz,” put in Tatters, surprised into speech by the bandit’s last statement. “It’s against the law isn’t it?”

  “So are bandits!” roared Vaga. “But I’m here just the same, my boy, taking things easy, and when I’ve saved up enough I’m going to open an Inn and take things easier still.”

  “Another way to rob honest travellers,” groaned the old soldier, “but now, as you’ve taken our four-pence and our time, untie these bonds and we’ll return to our camp.

  “Let him tell his story,” suggested Skally, “it might entertain us and they certainly owe us something for all this trouble.”

  “No, I’ve decided to make outlaws of them,” announced Vaga calmly. “The old one is a fine fighter and can be a father to me the young one would frighten anybody, as for the cast iron bird it can be melted up into bullets.”

  “What shall we do now?” whispered Tatters, seizing Grampa’s arm. The old soldier winked encouragingly.

  “Not bad at all,” he murmured aloud, as if he were half pleased at the idea of being a bandit. “Plenty of fighting and it’s as good a way as any to make a fortune. Swear us in Mr. Vagabandit, swear us in my son!”

  The bandit chief was surprised and overjoyed at Grampa’s change of heart. He immediately ordered Skally to untie the captives. Each was given a black mask and a dagger and, having raised their hands and solemnly agreed to break every law in Oz, they were welcomed with cheers and shouts into the outlaw band. After the excitement had died down, they all gathered about the fire and Grampa told them the history of Ragbad, how he had got his game leg and of the nine hundred and eighty great battles he had fought in. The bandits listened attentively at first, but the old soldier’s recital was so long that presently one and then another of the bandits fell asleep, and by the time Grampa had reached the nine hundredth battle the whole company lay sprawled about the fire, snoring like good fellows instead of bad ones. Prince Tatters, his head on the skin of the old thread bear, was asleep too.

  “More ways than one of winning a battle,” chuckled the old soldier, smiling behind his whiskers. First, he recovered his watch, medals and the four-pence. They were still on the ground beside Vaga. Protruding from the robber’s pocket was a rough blue pouch. Very carefully the old soldier drew it out. “This will pay for the shakings,” said Grampa, stowing it away in his game leg. “I’ll sample the soundrel’s tobacco when we’re well out of this.” As he straightened up the long, green bottle of patent medicine caught his eye. “I’ll take this along too,” he muttered, sticking it in his pocket. “Maybe it will help my rheumatism.”

  The fire had died down and it was so dark and forbidding in the blue forest that

  Grampa decided to snatch a few hours’ rest before making an escape. Stretching unconcernedly beside long-legged Skally he fell into a deep and peaceful slumber. And so well trained was this old campaigner that in two hours, exactly, he awoke. The sun had not yet risen, but in the dim gray light of early morning Grampa could make out the forms of the sleeping bandits. Stepping softly, so as not to waken them, he touched Tatters on the shoulder. The Prince started up in alarm, but when Grampa, with fingers to his lips, motioned for him to come he seized his red umbrella and tiptoed after him.

  “Have I lived to this age to be an old father to a bandit?” puffed Grampa indignantly as they hurried along. He shook his fist over his shoulder. “Farther and farther away is what I’ll be.” Grampa laughed a little at his joke. “But we can’t go without Bill,” he muttered suddenly, as they passed the rock under which the robbers had thrust the valiant weather cock. With some difficulty they lifted off the rock and, first whispering strict orders for silence, unwound Bill from the various coats and cloaks. Then Tatters, fearing the creak of Bill’s wings would arouse the bandits, stuck him under one arm.

  “Wish I knew where they kept their supplies,” whispered the old soldier as they pushed on through the heavy underbrush and made their way around gnarled old trees.

  “My teeth need some exercise.”

  “What a dreadful lot of crows there are in this forest,” mused the Prince, who had scarcely heard Grampa’s last remark. “Why the trees are black with them!”

  “Well, do you expect me to eat crow?” sniffed the old soldier, waving his sword to disperse a flock of the birds that were circling around his head.

  “No, but-” Tatters got no further, for at that instant crows of an entirely different nature made them both leap into the air. The sun had risen and as the first rays penetrated into the dim forest Bill flew out of Tatters’ arms and, perching on a low branch, burst into such a brazen clamor of cock-a-doodle-doos that the whole forest rang with it.

  “Hush! Halt! Stop that alarm!” gasped Grampa. “Now, you’ve done it!” “Oh, Bill, how could you!” groaned the Prince. Snatching off the skin of the thread bear, he flung it over the iron weather cock and seizing him unceremoniously began to run after Grampa. They had already put a goodly distance between themselves and the bandits, but a few minutes after Bill’s crowing shots came echoing through the wood and the next instant they could hear the outlaws crashing through the brush. They sounded like a herd of elephants.

  “We’ll have to hide,” panted the old soldier. “Here, crawl into this hollow tree.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Grampa dove into the tree himself and Tatters, taking a firmer hold on Bill and the red umbrella, followed.

  “Is there room?” gasped the Prince. “Grampa, are you there?” But Grampa was not there. Neither, for that matter, was Tatters himself, for his feet instead of resting on earth, rested on nothing. A great wind whistled past his ears and blew his hair straight on end.

  “The temperature’s falling!” The voice of the weather cock came stuffily through the bear skin.

  “Everything’s falling!” gasped the Prince of Ragbad, hugging Bill and the red umbrella close to his chest. “Everything!”

  You can easily understand what had happened. There was no bottom to the hollow tree. When Grampa, Prince Tatters and Bill crawled into the hole, they simply disappeared. They dropped down down down!

  CHAPTER 5: Down the Hollow Tree

  NOW falling, when you first start, is a hair-raising business, but after you have fallen for a mile and twenty minutes and nothing serious happens you grow rather used to the feel of it. And that’s how it was with Tatters.

  “Bill,” he shouted presently-he had to shout for the rush of air carried away his words as fast as they were spoken-“Bill, where do you suppose we’re falling to?”

  “South by West,” crowed the weather cock promptly. The Prince would have liked to continue the conversation, but it took too much breath, so he began planning how he should land without breaking Grampa, for certainly Grampa was somewhere below.

  Rather sorrowfully he reflected that they were falling farther away from the Emerald City every minute. He wondered where his father’s head was, and what Mrs. Sew-and-Sew would think if she could see them tumbling down this hollow tree. Would it never grow lighter? Would they never reach the bottom and what would happen when they did? Just as he came to this point in his wonderings, Tatters dropped into a clump of pink bushes so hard that for several seconds he could do nothing but gasp.

  “Well,” crowed Bill, beginning to flutter restlessly about in the bear-skin, “are we here?”

  “Yes, thanks to you. You’re discharged!” roared the old soldier, as Prince Tatters picked up himself and his red umbrella. Grampa had been less fortunate in his landing. He sat in the middle of a cinder path, blinking rapidly, and as Bill scrambled out of the bear-skin and hopped after Tatters, he raised his gun threateningly.

  “You’re discharged without pay,” repeated Grampa angrily. “What do you mean by crowing and betraying us to the enemy?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” answered Bill in an injured tone. “It is the nature of a cock to crow and I’ve helped the sun to rise.”

  “And us to fall,�
�� scolded Grampa. “Well, you’re discharged!” Rolling over with a groan, he drew the bottle of patent medicine from his pocket. Fortunately it was not broken, but it had made a dreadful dent in Grampa.

  “But wherever in Oz are we?” exclaimed Prince Tatters, trying to change the subject, for he did not intend to have Bill sent off in this hasty fashion. The old soldier pretended not to hear and continued to stare resentfully at the bottle of medicine. On one side was pasted a green label and Tatters looking over his shoulder read, with some surprise: Sure cure for everything. Follow the directions on the bottle.

  Beneath in tiny printing was a long list of ailments. Grampa ran his finger hastily down the list until he came to breaks, sprains and bruises. “One spoonfull immediately after falling,” directed the bottle. Without a word, Grampa took a tin spoon from his knapsack, uncorked the bottle and swallowed the dose.

  “Why, it’s the wizard’s medicine!” cried Tatters, watching him anxiously, for no sooner was the stuff down than a broad grin overspread Grampa’s face. “Good thing I brought it along-works just like magic-never know I’d fallen,” puffed Grampa, completely restored to good humor. “Better have some, boys.” The old soldier smiled at his companions.

  Tatters, who was not hurt at all, shook his head and Bill, who had flown into the air to examine the bottle, shook his wings.

  “Well-good-bye!” wheezed the weather cock hoarsely. “You don’t need me to direct you now-you can follow the directions on the bottle. Here I go,” he finished sulkily, “here I go by the name of Bill!”

  “Don’t go,” begged Tatters, looking pleadingly at the old soldier. Now Grampa, remembering the splendid way Bill had fallen upon the bandits, had already relented, but he never apologized.

  “Company fall in!” he commanded gruffly, putting the wizard’s medicine in his pocket. Tatters winked at Bill and Bill, muttering something about having fallen in already, began to march down the cinder path. They had dropped into a small park surrounded by a hedge that grew up as high as they could see. A soft glow shone through the hedge and by its rosy light the three adventurers began to examine their surroundings with great interest. The park itself was pretty enough, but after marching entirely around it and finding no break in the hedge, Grampa looked rather worried.

  “It’s a good enough place for a picnic,” puffed the old soldier, dusting his game leg, “but then we’re not on a picnic!”

  “No,” sighed Tatters, sinking down on a bench, “we’re not on a picnic, for there’s nothing to eat.”

  “If you were made of iron like I am you would never be hungry,” crowed the weather cock, proudly. “I am glad I am cast in iron, but what shall we do now, Mr Grampa?”

  “Fly up and see how high the hedge is,” directed the old soldier, “while Tatters and I try to cut an opening.” Pleased to be of some service, Bill hurled himself upward, and Grampa with his sword and Tatters with his rusty pen knife began hacking at the hedge. But as fast as they cut away the twigs, others grew and after ten minutes hard work they gave up in despair. Then down came Bill with the discouraging news that he had flown as high as he could, and the top of the hedge was still nowhere in sight. “But the wind is blowing north,” finished the weather cock calmly.

  “Bother the wind!” sputtered Grampa.

  “Must we stay here till we starve,” groaned Tatters, “and never find my father’s head or the fortune at all?”

  “Fortune,” repeated Bill, putting his head on one side as if the word brought something to his mind. “Don’t worry about that, for I have already found the fortune.”

  And while Grampa and the Prince stared at him in amazement, he touched with his claw a tiny golden key. It was suspended on a thin chain round his neck and neither of them had noticed it before.

  “Why, where did you get that?” asked Tatters.

  “I picked it out of the robber chiefs pocket,” explained Bill, rolling his eyes from one to the other.

  “You’d make a fine bandit,” chuckled Grampa, “but that’s not a fortune, old fellow!”

  “Then what is a fortune?” asked Bill, looking terribly disappointed. Grampa pulled his whiskers thoughtfully, for a fortune, when you come right down to it, is hard to explain.

  “Well,” he began slowly, “it might be gold, or jewels, or land. Anything precious and rare,” he finished hastily.

  “Isn’t this gold?” demanded Bill, holding up the key.

  “Oh, Grandpa, maybe it’s the key to the bandit’s treasure chest,” interrupted Tatters excitedly. “Let’s go back and hunt for it.”

  “And how are you going?” inquired the old soldier sarcastically. “Falling down trees is easy enough, but you can’t fall up trees like you can fall up steps. However,” he added quickly, seeing Tatters’ downcast face, “there must be some way out. Let’s look again.”

  “I’m going to keep this key,” mused Tatters in a more cheerful voice, “for I believe it will help us.” He gave Bill a little pat on the head as he took the chain off his neck, and somewhat comforted, but still mightily puzzled, the iron weather cock hopped after Grampa. This time they circled the hedge more slowly, the old soldier taking one side and Tatters and Bill the other. It was Bill who made the discovery-for shining through the leaves on the left side the weather cock caught the gleam of gold!

  “The fortune!” he crowed loudly. “The fortune!” It was not a fortune, but a golden gate, and pushing aside the leaves and twigs Grampa and Tatters stared through the bars into the loveliest garden they had ever seen. The gate was unlocked, and when Grampa pressed upon it with his shoulder it swung noiselessly inward. Fairly holding his breath, Tatters stepped in after the old soldier, and Bill had just time to hop thorugh before the gate swung shut again. Grampa gave a low whistle and Tatters an involuntary cry of admiration. Flowering vines and bushes filled the air with a delicate fragrance; paths of silvery sand wound in and out among the trees and arbors; crystal fountains splashed between the flower beds; and bordering each path and grass grown lane were trees glowing with magic lanterns, lanterns that bloomed as gayly as the blossoms themselves and lighted up the garden with a hundred rainbow sheens. It was all so strange and beautiful that Tatters and Grampa scarcely dared breath but Bill, having been alive only two days, seemed to think magic gardens quite usual affairs.

  “Come on,” he called excitedly, “let’s find the fortune!” But a golden sign on the nearest magic tree had caught Tatters’ eye and, paying no attention to Bill, he tiptoed over to it.

  “This is the Garden of Gorba,” announced the sign. “Mystery and magic in all its branches.” Grampa had come up behind Tatters. “Gorba,” muttered the old soldier softly. “Now where?” He pulled the bottle of patent medicine from his pocket and squinted first at the sign and then at the bottle. “The same!” puffed Grampa, for written in gold letters at the end of the list of ailments was the name Gorba.

  “This must be the garden of the wizard that rascally bandit was telling us about,” muttered Grampa uneasily. “He must have been on his way here when they held him up. Maybe he’s here now! Hush! Be careful! Watch out now! I wouldn’t trust a wizard as far as I could swing a chimney by the smoke!”

  CHAPTER 6: The Wizard’s Garden

  “MAYBE he will tell me where to find my father’s head,” whispered Tatters excitedly. “Well,” admitted Grampa, starting cautiously down one of the silver paths, “that would be a good turn, but a wizard’s more likely to turn us to good gate posts or caterpillars.”

  “I refuse to be a caterpillar,” rasped the weather cock. He had flown down and was hopping close to Grampa’s heels. “I’ll give him a peck in the eye!” Rattling his iron wings, Bill looked around anxiously.

  “Well, don’t forget you’re under orders,” snapped Grampa severely. “No forward falling, crowing or pecking till I give the word, understand?”

  “I don’t believe he’s a bad wizard,” observed the Prince quietly, “his garden is too pretty.”

  “Pre
tty is as pretty does,” sniffed Grampa. “He’s practising magic, which is against the law, and you can’t get around that, besides-” Just here Grampa trod upon a small flagstone path that led across a broad stretch of lawn and never finished his sentence at all, for the stone rose a foot into the air and started bouncing across the green at such a rate the old soldier teetered backward and forward and did a regular toe dance to keep his balance.

  “Wait!” shouted Tatters in alarm, and running after Grampa, himself stepped upon one of the lively flag stones. Up rose the stone and the next thing the Prince of Ragbad was bouncing after the old soldier, waving his red umbrella and calling frantically for Bill. But Bill was already aboard the third stone, and before any of them had sense enough to jump, the stones bounced straight under a silver fountain, dumped off their three startled passengers and went skipping back to their places in the walk.

  “Variable winds and heavy showers,” crowed Bill dismally.

  “Scaps and scribbage!” sputtered the old soldier. “I told you that wizard was a villain. Company fall out!” he commanded gruffly. This the company lost no time in doing.