The Adventurers Meet
“I don’t see any Princess,” sniffed the old soldier, coming to an abrupt
halt and eying the two travellers critically. Grampa and his army had
barely recovered from their tumble off the rainbow before Bill’s cries,
announcing the Princess, brought them hurrying to the tulip tree, where
Dorothy and Percy Vere were resting.
“Am I dreaming?” gulped the Forgetful Poet, clutching Dorothy’s hand.
“Am I dreaming or what?” His eye roved from Grampa’s game leg to
Tatters’ many-hued suit and finally came to a rest on the lovely little
flower fairy.
“There is the Princess,” insisted Bill, pointing his claw at Dorothy.
“Snuff and nonsense!” snapped the old soldier scornfully. “You’re a
regular false alarm, Bill, always going off at the wrong time. Why,
that’s only a dusty little country girl and no proper match for the
Prince at all!”
Grampa’s lofty speech brought Percy quickly out of his dream.
“Don’t you be so migh and highty,” muttered the Forgetful Poet, drawing
himself up proudly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you—”
“No offense! No offense!” observed Grampa coolly. “It’s not the
child’s fault that she’s not a Princess. I dare say she’s a very nice
little girl, but we’re looking for a Princess!”
“Why, so are we!” cried Dorothy in surprise. “But you needn’t be so
impolite.”
“She is a Princess, too, and do you mean to stand there and tell me that
that young ragbag is a Prince?” Percy Vere stared at Tatters long and
earnestly and then, rolling up his eyes murmured feelingly:
“A Prince of rags and scraps and patches,
And then they talk to _us_ of matches!
The Prince of what? The Prince of where
He has a bird’s nest in his—er in his—”
“Hair,” giggled Dorothy. Poor Tatters blushed to his ears and hurriedly
tried to smooth out his hair with his fingers.
“Come on!” cried Grampa indignantly. “They’re crazy!”
“If you’ll believe he’s a Prince, I’ll believe she’s a princess,” put in
a soft voice and Urtha, who had been listening anxiously to the sharp
speeches on both sides, danced up to the Forgetful Poet.
“That’s fair enough,” agreed Percy Vere, smiling at the little flower
fairy:
“You believe in us, and we’ll believe in you,
And if _you_ say so I’ll believe that six and one are—are—?”
“Two,” said Dorothy, “only they’re eight. You mustn’t mind Percy’s
forgetting. You see, he is a poet,” she explained hastily.
“Let me out! Let me out! What’s all this noise?”
Dorothy and the Forgetful Poet exchanged frightened glances and Toto
crept back of the tree-trunk with only one ear showing, for the voice
certainly had come from a bag on the Prince’s shoulder.
“Not a dream, but a night mare!” choked the Forgetful Poet, as the
Prince of Ragbad calmly took his father’s head out of the knitting bag
and held it up toward them.
“Don’t be alarmed,” purred Fumbo in his drowsy voice, as the two clung
to one another in a panic.
“I’m not alarmed, I’m—I’m petrified!” gasped Percy, looking over his
shoulder to see whether the path was clear in case he should desire to
run.
“It has a crown on,” whispered Dorothy nervously. “It must be a King. I
once knew a Princess who had dozens of heads and took them off. Maybe
he’s like that.”
“You’re speaking of the Princess Languidere, I presume,” drawled Fumbo.
Being a great reader, Fumbo was well acquainted with all the celebrities
in Oz. “No, my dear, I am not like that; as it happens I have only one
head and it blew off, as you can plainly see. This young man you see
here is my son and he is carrying my head back to my body. And now you
may tell me _your_ story,” commanded the King, smiling graciously. His
glance rested curiously on Dorothy. “You are known to me already,”
continued the King. “Grampa, this is Princess Dorothy of Oz, and she is
even prettier than her pictures, if you will permit me to say so.”
“I told you she was a Princess,” crowed the weather cock triumphantly.
“Have you a fortune with you, girl?”
“The Dorothy who lives in the Emerald City?” gasped Tatters, almost
dropping his father’s head. “The Dorothy who discovered Oz?”
Dorothy nodded modestly and Grampa, covered with confusion at the memory
of his sharp speech, tried to hide behind Tatters.
“Never mind,” laughed Dorothy, seeing Grampa’s embarrassment. “I really
don’t look like a Princess now. You see we’ve had such a hard journey,
falling down a mountain and all, we’re kinda rumpled.”
“We’ve been through a week of wash-days,” groaned Percy Vere,
straightening his jacket and looking ruefully at his red hands. “I’m
sorry I didn’t realize you were a Prince.” He turned contritely to
Tatters. “Mistakes all around, you see.”
“Well, we’ve had a hard time, too,” admitted the Prince of Ragbad,
making another frantic attempt to smooth his hair.
“Ask her if she has a fortune?” insisted Bill, settling heavily on the
Prince’s shoulder.
“Hush!” said Tatters, giving Bill a poke.
“Oh, goody! goody! We’re all going to be friends.” Urtha spread out
her flowery skirts and danced happily around the little group. “Oh,
forget-me-nots and daisies! Oh, dahlias and pinks!”
“And you’re the whole bouquet, Miss May!” cried Percy Vere, but he was
immediately interrupted by Fumbo.
“Stop!” cried the King’s head. “Let us keep these stories straight. You
said you were looking for a Princess. What Princess?”
“Company, sit down!” ordered the old soldier gruffly. He had commanded
the expedition so far and was not going to be bossed around at this
stage of the game. Tatters and Urtha promptly obeyed, the Prince
carefully holding his father’s head in his lap. Dorothy and Percy Vere,
after their long run, were glad enough to rest. So down they all sat in
a big circle under the green tree, Bill and Toto in the center, staring
at one another curiously.
“Now, then, Mr er—Mr—” Grampa nodded condescendingly at the Forgetful
Poet.
“Vere,” put in Percy politely.
“Now then, Mr Vere, let us have your story,” said the old soldier,
taking a big pinch of snuff. So, with many interruptions from King
Fumbo—who seemed to know all about Perhaps City—and many lapses into
verse, the Forgetful Poet told of Abrog’s prophecy about the monster, of
the strange disappearance of the little Princess and Abrog himself, of
his tumble down Maybe Mountain and of his and Dorothy’s adventures since
then on the Runaway and Monday Mountain.
“Humph,” grunted the old soldier, when he had finished. “I wouldn’t
trust a prophet as far as I could swing a chimney by the smoke. That
prophet has run off with her. You can bet your last shoe button on that
and, since we are searching for a Princess ourselves, we might as well
look for the Princess of Perhaps City. What do you say, my boy?” Grandpa
glanced questioningly at Tatters.
“I’ll be glad to help Princess Dorothy and this—this poet, but—” Already
Tatters had made up his mind to return with Urtha to Ragbad, regardless
of fortunes and Princesses.
“No buts about it,” roared the King’s head indignantly. “She’ll be a
splendid match for you, my son, and Peer Haps, from all reports, is one
of the merriest monarchs in Oz. Why, I dote on him already!”
“Can’t all this wait till we find the Princess?” protested Percy Vere
nervously. “No use rushing matters, you know.” All this talk of marrying
rather upset him. Tatters looked gratefully at the Forgetful Poet and
decided to forgive him for his rude verse.
“Of course it can wait,” agreed the Prince heartily. “The first thing to
do is to rescue the Princess.”
“No, the first thing to do, is to tell us who you are,” laughed Dorothy,
who could restrain her curiosity no longer. “Why, we don’t even know
your names or how you happened to be in this part of Oz.”
“We followed the directions on the bottle,” explained Bill importantly.
“We fell, swum, exploded, sailed and flew!”
“You tell them,” begged Tatters, looking appealingly at the old soldier,
for he could see that Bill was going to mix things dreadfully.
“Yes, you tell us,” commanded Fumbo. He had not yet heard the story of
their journey from Ragbad himself, and was even more curious about it
than Dorothy. So Grampa took the center of the circle. Now, next to
fighting, the old soldier loved to talk and, next to fighting, talking
was the best thing he did. His recital of the experiences of his little
army during the past three days was so thrilling that Dorothy and Percy
simply held their breath and Toto’s ears waved with excitement. Dorothy
was particularly interested in Bill and the strange manner in which he
had been shocked to life. Being from the United States herself, it
seemed real homelike to meet a fellow countryman, even if he was only a
weather cock. As for Percy Vere—who had lived all his life on Maybe
Mountain—nothing could exceed his astonishment as Grampa proceeded from
one adventure to the next.
“Do you mind if I close my eyes,” Percy muttered weakly, as Grampa
reached the point in his story where they had discovered Urtha growing
in the wizard’s garden. “Do you mind if I close my eyes? I can believe
anything with my eyes shut.”
“Not if you close your mouth also,” snapped Grampa and went right on
with his story, never even stopping for breath until he had reached
their last tumble from the rainbow.
“Professor Wogglebug will have to write a whole new history,” breathed
Dorothy, as Grampa settled back in his place, “and Ozma will never allow
the bandit to stay in the blue forest nor Gorba to practice magic in his
hidden garden. Oh, my! I do believe you can help us find the Princess
after all. You are so brave and interesting.” Dorothy smiled at Grampa
and Tatters and the Forgetful Poet, opening his eyes, stared dreamily at
the little flower fairy.
“If I had my arms, I’d embrace you all,” exclaimed Fumbo feelingly, “and
you shall have hugs all around as soon as I get back to my body. You’re
a credit to the country, and Bill here shall have a perch on the highest
tower in Ragbad and little Miss Posies—”
“But the Princess!” exclaimed Bill anxiously, “and the fortune! We
can’t go back without them!”
“Too late to hunt for them to-day,” chuckled Grampa and indeed, while
they had been talking, the sun had dropped down behind the daisy
splashed hill, leaving the world bathed in a pleasant dusk.
“We’re all tired, so we’ll have supper and make camp here,” decided
Grampa sensibly. “Then to-morrow we’ll start after that prophet with
gun, musket, sword and bootleather!”
“That’s the talk!” cried Percy Vere, jumping up to help Tatters gather
wood for a fire. With such good company, the last of the bear steaks
from Isa Poso and the berries gathered by little Urtha tasted better
than a feast, and nothing could have exceeded the jollity of that
evening ’round Grampa’s camp fire.
Between the Forgetful Poet’s verse and the old soldier’s jokes, they
were simply convulsed and finally, when they had talked over their
adventures to heart’s content, Dorothy, Tatters, the Forgetful Poet and
Urtha settled down to a quiet game of scrum. Soon the only sound to be
heard was the click of the checkers on Grampa’s game leg and the loud
snores of Fumbo’s head, which hung from a branch of the tulip tree in
the pink knitting bag of Maribella, the little sky shepherdess.