THE LAST DRAGON
DAN TOTHEROH
_THE LAST DRAGON_
_By_
_DAN TOTHEROH_
_Author of “DAVID HOTFOOT”_
_Illustrated by_
_ELEANOR OSBORN EADIE_
[Illustration]
_NEW YORK_
_GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY_
COPYRIGHT, 1927,
By GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
[Illustration]
THE LAST DRAGON
-- A --
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO KAY
WHO FIRST SAW
THE LAST DRAGON
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE MEADOW AND THE WOODLOT 13
II PETER ENTERS THE WOODLOT 23
III MR. DRAGON MEETS THE CHILDREN 30
IV GRANDMA MEETS THE DRAGON 44
V GOODBYE, DRAGON 57
VI THE DRAGON TAPS ON THE WINDOW 64
VII GOING BACKWARDS 74
VIII CRUBBY 85
IX THE ENCHANTED SILVER TOES 97
X ALLAN THE ARMORER 110
XI ON THE KING’S GREAT HIGHWAY 116
XII PETER GOES TO THE FAIR AND WHAT HE FINDS THERE 126
XIII THE PRINCESS WITH TOES OF SILVER 137
XIV PETER AND MIG, THE MAGICIAN 151
XV ON TOWARD GIGGLETOWN 159
XVI DALLAHAN 164
XVII ONCE MORE ON THE KING’S GREAT HIGHWAY 168
XVIII BACK AGAIN 179
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“ON WITH YE FIGHT!” 25
“LOOK AT THEM RUNNING FROM ME” 33
GRANDMA 45
PETER WAS STANDING ON THE DRAGON’S NECK 78
SILVER TOES ESCAPES FROM THE OLD WITCH 106
GRANDMA AND THE CHILDREN COME TO BE MEASURED
FOR SUITS OF MAIL 111
BEPPO BALANCES PETER’S SWORD ON HIS CHIN 130
“YES, YOU HAVE ME ALWAYS, DEAR DRAGON!” 183
THE LAST DRAGON
THE LAST DRAGON
CHAPTER I
THE MEADOW AND THE WOODLOT
The meadow and the adjoining woodlot were just right for valiant
knights and fair ladies that springy Saturday afternoon. The meadow,
soft and green and open, was right for the pavilion where the jousting
match could take place,--the big beech tree at the far, sun-rising end
made such a delightful canopy over the king’s judgment throne--and
then after the bout, and the victorious knight was sent forth to do
battle with the dragon, there was no more mysterious lurking place for
a coily, fire-breathing beast than the shadowy woodlot with its thick
thimble berry thicket; its black cave under the drippy spring-shelf,
and its close-grown oaks and maples.
Indeed, there was always something terrifying to the children about
the woodlot, even when the sun pierced through its wall of branches and
leaves. The thimble berry thicket had never been completely explored,
and as for the oozy cave--well, Johnathan had ventured in as far as the
first bend once, holding a bit of lighted candle, but the candle had
been blown out, and he had rushed back to wide-eyed Peter and Janet
Jane who had stayed outside, peering in at the cave’s black mouth.
Johnathan, when he could get his breath, vowed he saw something strange
around the bend, just before the candle flickered out, but Johnathan
had a vivid imagination (it was he who made-up all the plays and all
the games that took place in the meadow and spilled over into the
woodlot on Saturdays) and whether he really did see something strange
around the bend or had just imagined it, Peter and Janet Jane could not
be sure. Their mother said he had just imagined it, of course! “What
nonsense, Johnathan! You’re too old to imagine such things! No wonder
you were so poor in arithmetic this month!” Johnathan really didn’t see
the connection.
But that wasn’t _all_ about the woodlot! Peter, just six, said he had
heard a lion roaring in the thimble berry thicket one stilly evening
when he had gone back to find his lost cap in the meadow, but then
Peter had a generous share of imagination too. “Lions are only in
Africa or in a circus,” Janet Jane had said with feminine authority,
but Peter replied in his well-known lisp and with his head cocked, that
there was no _good_ reason why a lion couldn’t be found in a thimble
berry thicket just as well as a badger or a chipmunk, and no amount
of argument could convince him otherwise. Suppose lions _didn’t_ eat
thimble berries? Couldn’t one have been in the thicket for some other
reason, or couldn’t one have been there for no reason at all? Why
should there always be a reason for things? Peter liked to go places
for no reason. Maybe lions did too!
Janet Jane pretended to be skeptical about the possibility of unknown
and terrifying things lurking in the woodlot, until one morning early,
having gone alone to the meadow to find mushroom buttons, she had seen
a pixie stick his head out and grin broadly at her, wriggling his
pointed ears like a rabbit at the same time. As Janet Jane stared at
him, another pixie, wearing a pink sunbonnet, although he looked very
much like a boy-pixie, otherwise, bobbed up over the first pixie’s
shoulder and wriggled his long nose at her, just like a rabbit too.
Then Janet Jane, who stood rooted to the spot with astonishment,
declared that the two pixies began to sing, one in tenor and one in
bass. Strangely enough, she remembered the words of the song. It went:
Butter and eggs, butter and eggs,
Mushroom buttons and spider legs.
Mix them up and bake them brown,
And you’ll have a dish that will tempt the town.
Now, this sounded suspicious to Johnathan because Janet Jane was just
learning to cook, and she was always singing receipts, and some of her
proposed dishes were queer indeed. Therefore, it was strange that the
two pixies she saw that early morning should sing receipts too, but
Janet Jane said, “Not at all!” They were doing it just to poke fun at
her. Pixies always poked fun, anyhow. They were like brownies in that
respect, and not at all like fairies who are too well brought up to
poke fun.
They sang the song through twice with a different tune each time, and
after that Janet Jane managed to say, “Shooo!” at the pixies, and they
had vanished into the woodlot. Stooping to pick up her spilled mushroom
basket, Janet Jane heard the rude fellows laughing at her--Oh, high,
shrill laughter like a tree-squirrel’s bark.
So you see, since Janet Jane was sure she had seen the pixies, and
since Peter was sure he had heard the lion, and Johnathan was sure of
something mysterious in the cave, around the first bend, there was no
doubt that the woodlot was terrifying, and that the victorious knight
who ventured into it with drawn wooden sword was almost sure to meet
with adventure.
It was just after breakfast that memorable Saturday morning when the
children congregated in the soft, green and open meadow sprinkled with
cowslips and Johnny-jump-ups. The little troop broke through the willow
clump at the sunsetting end of the meadow, and advanced solemnly in
the direction of the big beech tree where the king’s throne was already
waiting. Johnathan and Billy Rose had fixed it after school on Friday.
Their appearance scattered two chubby meadow mice into a desperate rush
for their holes, and a flock of Jenny wrens fled chittering, indignant
at being disturbed, like little gray ladies at a tea party. There was
quite an impressive procession advancing toward the king’s throne. It
had formed at the back door of the Baxter house, under the alert eyes
of Grandma, watching from her upstairs window, and led by Johnathan
who of course was king, King Arthur, no less, it wound through the rose
garden, up the lane past the fish pond, over the creek bridge, through
the truck garden, skirted the barn and wriggling through the orchard
it bobbed its ten small heads to escape hitting the low branches of
the willow clump, filing through a tunnel of green leaves to the open
spaces of the dewy meadow.
Yes, there were ten in that procession, including the Irish setter
named Nap, and the airedale named Jerry. First, as we said before,
there was Johnathan Baxter, King Arthur, dressed in the green and red
portiere with tassels, that had graced so many courtly ceremonies.
The paper crown was on the kingly head, and in the royal hand was the
oak-wood scepter. Close on his majesty’s heels walked her majesty,
Queen Guinevere, Janet Jane Baxter, resplendent in a long pink mother
hubbard, one of Mrs. Baxter’s cast-off garments, made theatrical and
queenly by the silver paper stars that were pinned around the hem.
Following her was Susan Oliver, five years old, bearing up the queen’s
train, a child with eyes like mulberries and a blue-black cloud of
hair. She was pouting because she felt it was her turn to be the queen,
and before the procession started it was very doubtful if she would
play at all. The promise of queenship next Saturday finally quieted
her, although she carried the train with a disdainful air that ruined
the dignity of the queen, since it dragged the ground on one side and
looped up too far on the other, showing the queen’s long, spindly legs.
After Susan Oliver came the two knights carrying their wooden swords,
the chubby and blond-curled Peter Baxter as Sir Launcelot, and the
taller and older Billy Rose as Sir Galahad. They walked heads high,
little noses up, wearing tin-can armor with pride. Their broomstick
horses were waiting for them, tied to saplings under the beech tree.
Directly behind the knights was the public, three small girls, Mary,
Kath and Polly, who were allowed to furnish their own costumes. Mary
wore fluffy skirts like a bare-back rider; Kath dragged a green train
that rivalled the queen’s in length and caused a serious argument
before the procession started, and Polly’s seven years were lost in a
riding suit of her mother’s, with boots that might have belonged to the
famous Puss.
The procession went twice around the meadow, stopping after the second
circuit before the throne. King Arthur took his seat on a bench covered
with a piece of red, white and blue bunting, and his queen sat down
beside him. The pouting Susan Oliver stood behind the queen and stared
down at the top of her sandy head. Sandy hair wasn’t nearly as nice
for a queen as black hair--no, not nearly! Susan was supposed to fan
the queen, but she had purposely forgotten the fan, which is as much as
we’ll say right here regarding Susan’s disposition. The public of three
scattered itself right and left of the throne and took postures of deep
interest.
After a silence, the king rose and pushing back his crown that had
worked down over his eyes, he spoke in tones that seemed to arise from
his shoes, his chin pressed down against his throat to produce the
effect. “On with ye fight, and the victor will enter yonder forest to
slew ye dragon who has been spreading terror and destruction through
out ye countryside.”
He sat down, and the queen smiled at him and said, “Ye spoke well, O
King,” but the king did not answer her. A queen should never speak in
public unless the king asked her a question, and then she should only
reply in as few words as possible.
At the king’s command, the knights drew their swords and pointed them
down to the ground and bowed very low to the king. Then they went to
the saplings and untied their horses and mounted them. The fiery steeds
leaped up and down and nearly threw the knights off, and the grass of
the meadow was torn up by whirling feet.
“Quiet with ye horses and on with ye fight!” finally commanded the
king and at once, just as if they understood, the horses calmed down,
and the knights drew apart, lifting their swords to wait for the final
signal from King Arthur.
King Arthur stood up; raised his hand; held it steady for a breathless
moment; then let it drop quickly to his side. The public showed renewed
interest. The blond and chubby knight, Sir Launcelot, made the first
dash for his opponent. The wooden swords clashed and the furious battle
was on.