IN WHICH DAN IS PRESENTED WITH THE KEY TO THE VALLEY
Having tarried in Slumberland until well into the morning, Dan finally
made known his intention of quitting it by rolling his head to one side,
wrinkling the end of his long, funny nose, and puckering his forehead in
the very same spot where his brow was adorned with a red polka dot.
Still, he did not at once rouse himself. In fact, so to put it, he
really awakened a bit at a time. And it was while he was not yet more
than half, or, at the very most, only two-thirds awake, that he felt
something tickling the tops of his knees. This caused him to wiggle the
ends of his toes and to pucker his brow even more than before. But the
tickling persisted and so, at last fully awakened, he opened his eyes
and sat straight up between the tall stalks of corn.
“A good morning, Sir Clown,” cried a welcoming voice.
At the sound of it, Dan looked to the right and looked to the left. But
naught could he see save the green of the corn and the splashes of
sunlight that patterned the ground.
“Here we are—out here!” again called the voice. And looking down, Dan
saw a most remarkable sight. There, drawn up in two lines along the
ridge of his legs and extending well over his knees, were two entire
companies of the Jumping Dragoons. He knew them at once, for all wore
coats, caps and trousers that were exact copies of Beader’s; while,
square at the head of them, astride a mouse in silver-trimmed trappings,
was none other than that worthy, himself.
“My, my; we thought you never would waken!” exclaimed Dan’s guide of the
night, “but now that you have, allow me to present my comrades of the
Micetown Dragoons.” At the precise moment that Beader pronounced the
“goons” in dragoons, he drew his sword from its scabbard and held it
fixed at salute while, with a rattle and swish and a flourishing flip,
all the rest of the mice followed suit.
“My respects to you to all and a good wish for each one,” returned Dan,
as he bowed as best he could sitting down, “I assure you I am honored by
this courtly attention.”
“Now then, fall out!” Beader commanded, “and make haste to bring forward
our guest’s breakfast rations.” Off Dan’s legs they all tumbled; down
past his feet they all went, and were soon coming back carrying whole
dozens of morsels of cream cheese and cake. These they piled high in
Dan’s willing lap and, a half-minute after, the clown was eating his
fill while the red-coated dragoons perched upon his knees, feet and
shoulders—visiting and chattering for quite all they were worth.
“I suppose you are surprised to see me in uniform after what I told you
last night,” Beader said. “But, since it was I who first guided you, all
the dragoons insisted that I should lead them to the corn patch this
morning. Besides, Plunger didn’t mind being a horse for to-day. Did you,
Plunger?” he appealed to the mouse upon whose back he sat.
“Ne—he—he,” answered Plunger, shaking his head and pawing Dan’s ruff
with one foot.
“He means, ‘No, not a bit,’” Beader explained. “You see it is one of our
rules that when a dragoon is a horse he is not to utter a word. He may
only whinny, or say ‘no’ or ‘yes’ with his head.”
So, as they talked, Dan finished his breakfast.
“That over with, we will prepare to move to the square,” announced
Beader. “Dragoons fall in!”
At this word from their leader, the others all sprang to the furrow and
were soon once more at attention.
“Forwar—r—r—d, ha!” came from Beader. Onward they marched until the rear
of their lines had passed well beyond the clown’s feet.
“Halt!” ordered Beader. “Now then, you, Diggeldy Dan, will march just
behind the tails that come last. You, band-mice, will take up your
position just behind Dan.”
With this last command a group of beady-eyed fellows swung into view
from an adjoining furrow. They wore jackets of green that contrasted in
most lively fashion with their pink pantaloons and still pinker hats. As
for instruments, there were what one might have called fifes, which were
made by placing blades of green grass between two whittled sticks; and
fully two dozen drums fashioned from corncobs with the ends covered over
with well-seasoned husks. On the head of the largest drum, Dan read the
words:
Fielders’ Fife and Drum Corps
The players were led by an unusually tall mouse who seemed all the
taller because of the great plush hat that he wore. This was held in
place by a strap that passed under his chin. He carried a glistening
stick, with a knob at one end, which he spun high overhead as he
marched. Dan knew him at once; it was Bounder, who had garnered the
whole head of wheat.
Thus brought into formation by Beader—their mile-high guest towering
above them—the mice slowly emerged from the corn patch. Soon they had
reached one of the broad, sanded paths that led into the town. Already
the merry notes of the fifes and the rattle of drums heralded the
procession’s approach. Small wonder, then, that windows were jammed with
vast numbers of spectators and the sides of the avenue simply gray with
the crowd. Many of the younger mice had climbed up the corn stalks that
bordered the street, while others trailed in the rear of the drummers or
kept pace with Bounder as he twirled his baton.
Beader, astride Plunger, was everywhere at once, so it seemed: First at
the head of the column and then at the back of it; now along one flank
and now down the other—giving this order or that in a manner that called
forth much admiration. At each of the corners were important mice in
blue coats who waved back the throngs as the marchers drew near and
touched their helmets as Dan passed their stations.
Such were the scenes that greeted Dan’s eyes as the procession moved
onward to finally arrive at the square. Big as it was, the plaza looked
to be completely carpeted with mice. These were of every color and size
and all smartly attired in holiday dress. On a central platform was
another mouse band. Its players blew lustily on pipes and on horns that
were made from parts of wheat stalks. Just in front of the bandstand—but
on a different and still higher platform—stood a table and, behind the
table, four chairs in a row. As for decorations—there, seemed to be no
end of them. Bandstand and platform were draped with bunting, and flags
and gay pennants fluttered forth on all sides.
Now, at the point where Dan had come to a halt was a wide-spreading tree
whose undermost branches just tipped the top of his sugar-loaf hat. This
tree shaded the greater part of the square. Looking up from the scene
that lay at his feet, the clown noticed a string dangling quite near his
nose. Following the length of it with a curious eye, he saw that it
passed through a miniature pulley that was fixed to a branch of the
tree. One half of the string ran down at a slant to be lost at a point
where the Jumping Dragoons had been drawn up at attention. The other
part of the string hung almost straight down until it reached the table
that stood on the platform. And now Dan saw that a flag had been placed
over the top of the table and that the end of the string passed under
the folds of it. Even as he looked there came a stir in the crowd and
another in the branches that spread near his head. Glancing up, he saw
Beader spring to his shoulder and, again looking down, beheld four
exceedingly dignified mice ascending the steps that led to the platform.
All wore glossy silk hats, which were removed as they reached the top of
the steps and then carefully placed under the four separate chairs that
stood in a row near the table. Then they sat down and began mopping
their brows with handkerchiefs which they drew from their pockets.
“They are our mayors,” Beader imparted, as the band struck up an
entirely new air, “of Dorton, of Nightsville, of Stubbleton, and here.”
The band again silent, the most portly mouse advanced to the
flag-covered table.
“Mayor Mouser, of Micetown,” whispered Beader.
“Friends and fellow mice,” began the speaker, “we are gathered here
to-day to welcome to our midst one who has traveled from afar. We have—”
And standing there with his head against the branches—Beader whispering
explanations of all that was not clear to him—Dan listened to this
welcoming speech.
“And now, in conclusion,” said the mayor, “I have, in the name of all
our villages, the honor of presenting Diggeldy Dan, with the key to the
Valley of Tick Tock.” As he said this he lifted one hand in signal
toward the companies of Jumping Dragoons. Instantly Dan saw that the
red-coated ones had taken hold of that end of the string which lay
nearest them. Now they ran outward quite as if they were playing at
tug-of-war. At the same moment the string tightened in the pulley, and
then—up from the table came the flag. As it unfurled to the breeze, Dan
saw that its emblem was a sheaf of bright yellow wheat. Under the flag
hung a bit of free string and, fast to the end of it—spinning and
glittering as it came—was a golden key scarcely longer than Dan’s little
finger! In a second the key had been drawn up on a level with his face
and, prompted by Beader, the clown untied it amid wave upon wave of
heartiest cheers and the gayest of gala-day music.
While the huzzas were in progress any who were not looking at Dan might
have noted that the four on the platform were in close consultation. A
moment later Mayor Mouser again waved for attention.
“I am happy to say that I have still another announcement to make,” said
he, when silence had fallen. “Of course the greater part of our guest’s
day and evening will be taken up with the tour of the valley. But this,
as we all know, being Clock Day Night, I ask that all of you who can
possibly do so, be in the square at midnight. For it has been
unanimously decided that Diggeldy Dan is to accompany us to Hear the
Clock Strike One!”
Cheer after cheer greeted this news. Again Dan was reminded of the queer
tower that he had seen among the trees when he first entered the valley.
Again he recalled the strange sound that had lulled him to sleep. He
wondered if these things were to play a part in the promised adventure.
But there was no time to ask. Already Beader had descended to the ground
and was bringing the dragoons to attention; already a new procession was
being formed to escort Dan on his tour through the Valley of Tick Tock.
Now Bounder had begun to twirl his stick Skyward and the fifes to make
merry and the drums to beat. So, still wondering—the golden key clasped
tightly in one hand—Dan marched from the plaza, bowing first one way and
then the other to the crowd or waving his pointed hat toward wee
mice-in-arms that were held upward to claim his attention.