“That was a fine place for you, Scraps,” chuckled Peter as the oztrich
thudded good humoredly along the sunny road. “You’d rather sing than
talk anyway. But singing and dancing all your life, whew! How would
you play base ball to music, I wonder. Imagine singing out signals and
trying to make a home run to a waltz.”
“The dinners were the saddest,” sighed Grumpy, licking his chops
hungrily. “Do you see any biscuit bushes or carrot trees around here?”
“There’s some kind of a tree in that field,” answered Peter, “but the
fruit is up so high we couldn’t reach it, anyway.”
“I could,” grunted the little bear eagerly. “Let’s stop and try.” The
oztrich had spied some especially appetizing rocks by the roadside and
was quite willing to stop. So Peter placed his egg child beside him
and, while they ran off to investigate the fruit tree, Ozwold lunched
quite contentedly on a couple of cobblestones. The tree was about as
tall as a cocoanut palm and clustered at the top were large green
fruits about the size of watermelons.
Requiring no luncheon, Scraps danced off to amuse herself and, as
Peter and Grumpy blinked hungrily upward, two of the melons detached
themselves from the branch of the tree and came sailing gracefully
downward.
“Why, they’ve umbrellas over them,” gasped Peter.
“Of course,” said the little bear calmly. “Have you never seen an
umbrella melon?” Peter never had and said so quite frankly.
[Illustration]
“Well,” explained Grumpy, placing himself in a position to catch the
larger of the two. “If they didn’t have these umbrella attachments
they’d smash to pieces when they fell. As it is, when the fruit is
ripe the umbrella leaves open and float them safely down. Ah-hh!”
Holding out both arms, Grumpy neatly caught his melon and, hugging
it blissfully, sat down to enjoy his first meal since leaving Patch.
Peter had to chase his luncheon all around the field, for the breeze
was brisk and the umbrella attachment larger than the melon itself.
But finally he did manage to overtake it and bringing the melon back,
settled down beside Grumpy. Cutting off the umbrella leaves with his
pen knife, Peter split the melon in two. It was something like a
cantaloupe, only much larger and much sweeter and to the tired, hungry,
dusty little traveller, it tasted perfectly delicious. But, hungry as
he was, half the melon was all he could eat and he looked in admiring
astonishment as Grumpy burrowed his nose deeper and deeper into his.
The entire center was gone and he was nibbling at the rind when Scraps
came hurrying back across the field.
“Are you boys going to eat all day?
Glad I don’t waste _my_ time that way!”
“You don’t know what you miss, Miss.” Licking his nose, Grumpy grinned
up at the Patchwork Girl, but Scraps, sticking out her tongue, merely
turned a cartwheel, jumped over a fence, and landed neatly on the back
of Ozwold. Peter and Grumpy were not slow to follow, for they were all
anxious to reach the capital before nightfall.
“Is my child safe?” mumbled Ozwold as well as he could with the two
cobblestones still sticking in his throat. “Whatever you do, don’t drop
my child. He is my wife’s favorite egg. I do hope he doesn’t hatch out
before we reach the Emerald City!”
“So do I,” breathed Peter, looking quite nervously at the huge egg in
his lap. “Have you ever been in the Emerald City?” he asked politely.
“No,” answered the oztrich slowly. “Have you?” Peter shook his head and
as Ozwold jogged along the lane, Scraps told him all about the capital
of Oz and the delightful people who live there, ending up with the
story of Ruggedo’s escape and his wicked plan to steal all the Oz magic
and make himself ruler of the realm.
“Ruler of Oz!” screamed the oztrich, stopping in consternation. “Great
grandmothers, why didn’t you tell me this before? Why, if that old
gnome has a flying cloak, he’s probably reached the Emerald City and
captured everybody by this time. A gnome on the throne of Oz, how
perfectly impos! Ruggedo ruler of Oz, how simply ridick!” At each word
Ozwold grew more indignant, and finally, with a screech like an engine
whistle, he hurled himself forward, running along at such speed that
trees, fences, farms and hills whirled by in a blur of dust and Peter
and the others had all they could do to keep their places. Hugging the
oztrich egg with one arm and Scraps with the other, Peter blinked and
bounced and tried to catch a glimpse of the country they were passing
or the country they were coming to. But between the speed and the dust,
he could see nothing.
“If he’s just going in the right direction,” thought the little boy,
closing his eyes and gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering,
“we’ll get there in no time. If he isn’t--”
[Illustration]
“Whoa! Whoa!” roared Grumpy, as long as he had breath enough to roar.
Even Scraps tried to check the mad plunge of their excited steed. But
finally they all stopped shouting and devoted all their energies to
hanging on. Peter rather expected they would run into something and so
was not greatly surprised to find himself sitting in the middle of the
road. Scraps sprawled beside him and Grumpy, rubbing his head, limped
crossly out of a ditch. Ozwold himself was leaning up against a tree
with both eyes closed, while across the roadway lay an extremely upset
and odd looking traveller.
“I told you to whoa,” growled Grumpy, shaking his paw angrily. “Now see
what you’ve done!”
“Never say whoa to an oztrich,” muttered the green bird, opening one
eye. “Say whum!”
“But we’ve run over somebody,” exclaimed Peter.
“Is my child broken?” asked the oztrich, opening the other eye and
peering wildly in every direction. Fortunately the egg had fallen on a
heap of soft sand and while Ozwold hurried over to assure himself it
was not cracked, Scraps and Peter ran to help the stranger.
“Are you broken, stunned or killed,
Wrecked or sprained or simply spilled?”
quavered the Patchwork Girl, leaning over him.
“It’s all right,” sighed the stranger, sitting up slowly. “I’m used to
being slammed. Just so my back’s not broken, I don’t care!”
“Why, it’s a book!” burst out Peter, coming closer to make sure.
“Not a book, a bookman!” corrected the traveller, rising with Scrap’s
help to his feet. “Books are old fashioned, but a bookman is right up
to date. I don’t wait to be advertised, I speak for myself, I don’t lie
around waiting to be read, I run after people and make them read me. I
can carry myself and turn over a new leaf every day in the year. I’m
very interesting!” finished the bookman, with a wide smile at Peter.
Peter smiled back and how could he help it? Above his big book body the
fellow had a round jolly face with floppy dog ears. His legs and arms
were quite thin and he was about as tall as Scraps.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” asked the little boy, as the bookman
began to run briskly up and down thumping the covers of his book body
to knock out the dust.
“What are you about?” asked Grumpy, looking curiously at the traveller
and still rubbing his head with his paw. “Have you any animal tales?”
“Or verse?” cried the Patchwork Girl eagerly.
“Or baseball stories?” questioned Peter, coming closer and closer. In
their interest they had almost forgotten the oztrich.
[Illustration]
“I’ve all kinds of stories,” boasted the bookman and, unclasping his
middle, spread wide the pages of his book. “Which will you have first?”
“A bear story,” said Grumpy, sitting down on his haunches and waving
both paws. “Bear stories are the most exciting!”
“No, a verse,” shrilled the Patchwork Girl quickly. Peter was about to
call for a baseball story when he suddenly remembered his manners.
“Ladies first,” said Peter, looking reprovingly at the little bear.
“Just show us one of your verses,” he remarked carelessly.
“Funny or sad?” asked the bookman, running his finger down his table of
contents.
“Funny, of course,” chuckled Scraps, tossing her head impatiently.
Turning his pages rapidly the bookman stepped off a few paces and,
leaning forward, the three travellers read:
“Do fishes use the liquid tones
The world so highly praises?
Could they speak dryly, and do bees
Converse in honeyed phrases?”
“Ho! Ho!” laughed Peter merrily, “if they do they’d soon get stuck.
That’s a good one--almost as good as your verses, Scraps.”
“There’s a much funnier one on page seventy-six,” said the bookman
gaily. “Wait!”
“What for?” Coming up behind them, Ozwold looked severely at their new
friend. “What are we waiting for?” he repeated sternly.
“This is the man you ran over,” explained Peter quickly, “and he’s
letting us read his book.”
“And you stand here reading with the whole Kingdom in danger?” hissed
the oztrich, thrusting his long neck forward angrily. “A nice way to
save the Queen, I must say.”
“I’ve a chapter on saving, somewhere, but I’m afraid it’s on saving
money,” mumbled the bookman, thumbing his pages over hurriedly. Peter
and Scraps looked rather crest-fallen and, while they walked slowly
toward the oztrich, he again addressed the bookman.
“If you know so much, perhaps you can tell us the way to the Emerald
City,” he wheezed disagreeably.
“I’m not a guide book,” answered the bookman stiffly.
“Then shut up,” advised the oztrich so sharply that without intending
to at all the bookman did shut up.
“Are you coming, or do I have to save the Kingdom myself?” asked the
oztrich, turning impatiently to Peter.
“I’ll come, too, and entertain you as you go along. Read as you run,”
said the bookman brightly.
“Not as I run,” sniffed Ozwold, who seemed determined to snub this new
acquaintance. “Better keep out of my way or you’ll be run over again.”
“I’m afraid you will,” sighed Peter, patting the bookman kindly on the
back, for he seemed quite crushed by Ozwold’s rude speeches.
Scraps had already mounted the oztrich and now, leaning far out to the
side, shook hands with the bookman, singing:
“Bookman! Bookman, don’t you care,
We’ll see you some day somewhere,
Come to the Emerald City, do
And then I’ll read you through and through!”
“So will I,” promised Grumpy earnestly. “You’ll find us in the palace.
Just ask for the Queen of the Quilties and her pet,” finished the
little bear grandly.
“There won’t be any palace if you stand here much longer,” fumed the
oztrich, kicking up the dust angrily. “_Come on!_”
Realizing that there was some truth in the oztrich’s remarks, Peter
picked up the huge egg and climbed aboard. Grumpy, growling under his
breath, took his seat behind Peter.
“This is no time for improving literature,” hissed the oztrich,
starting off at a two legged trot. Peter did not bother to answer, but
waved his cap cheerily to the bookman, who still stood uncertainly
in the middle of the road. He kept on waving till the bookman became
a mere speck in the distance, then, turning about, devoted all his
attention to holding on. For nearly an hour Ozwold pelted down the
endless road. Then suddenly Scraps clutched him excitedly about the
neck.
“Stop!” shouted the Patchwork Girl. “Stop! Stop!”
“What’s the matter?” coughed the oztrich, slackening his speed a trifle.
“Turn out between those pear trees quick,
I see the road of yellow brick,”
cried Scraps, waving one arm joyfully over her head.
“Where does that take us?” inquired Peter, leaning curiously over
Scraps’ shoulder.
“To the Emerald City’s golden gate;
Home! Home at last, I can hardly wait!”
sang Scraps, nearly choking the oztrich in her excitement. “Hurry,
Ozzy, hurry! Hurry!”
“Don’t forget to whum when you come to the Emerald City,” grumbled
Grumpy, as the great green bird gathered itself together for another
burst of speed.
“The Emerald City may be destroyed for all we know,” wheezed Ozwold
gloomily. “But hold tight, everybody. Here we go!”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]