“So do I,” said Betsy, running over to give him a little hug. “You’re so soft and comfortable to ride this way.”
“But sawdust is very serviceable,” urged the Wizard, who was anxious to try his new powders, “and I could stuff you in an hour.” The Wizard, by the way, is a mortal like Dorothy and Betsy. Long ago he had been engaged by a circus in Omaha to make balloon flights. But one afternoon, his balloon becoming unmanageable, had flown off-up and away and never stopped till it dropped down in Oz. It was the Wizard who had built the Emerald City and for many years he practiced the trick magic he had learned in the circus. But later, Glinda the good Sorceress of the South, had taught him real magic and he is now one of the most accomplished magicians in all fairy history.
“Better let me stuff you,” repeated the Wizard coaxingly.
“No! No! No!” roared the Hungry Tiger, becoming really alarmed at the little man’s persistence. “No, I tell you!”
“Well,” the Wizard rose regretfully and began to move off, “if you ever change your mind, let me have first chance, will you?”
“I’m going to change my mind tomorrow. Sitting down stiffly on a bench opposite the hammock, Jack Pumpkinhead beamed upon the company. “It’s almost too soft to use,” mused Jack, touching the top of his pumpkin gently, “so, if you don’t mind, I’ll not talk any more.
“We don’t mind at all,” laughed Betsy, while Dorothy and Trot, who had just joined the group, exchanged merry winks. Jack was so amusing that no one could help chuckling when he was around. He had been made by Ozma, when she was a little boy, and was almost as unusual as the Scarecrow. To those not familiar with Oz history, this may seem a bit strange, but Ozma once was a little boy, having been transformed by old Mombi, the witch. And while she was a little boy she had carved Jack neatly from wood and set an old pumpkin on his peg neck for a head. Later he had been brought to life by mistake and has been living merrily ever since. Every month or so Jack has to pick a pumpkin and hollow out a new head for himself, so that he is constantly changing his mind, but Ozma has a deep affection for the queer fellow, and Jack is so odd and jolly that he is a great favorite in the Emerald City.
“Let’s finish off the party with a game of hide and seek,” suggested the Cowardly Lion, as Jack continued to stare solemnly straight in front of him. “You’re it Betsy!” Giving the little girl a playful poke, he dashed down an arbored path, followed helter skelter by all the others. Even Jack, holding fast to his pumpkin head, ran and hid himself behind a balloon vine. But the Hungry Tiger ran fastest of all, never stopping till he reached the remotest corner of the garden. All this talk of stuffing had made him exceedingly nervous and, with a troubled sigh, he sank down beside a lovely fairy fountain. Here, blinking up at the bright lanterns hung everywhere in honor of Betsy’s birthday, he began to think of the good old days when he had roamed the wild jungles of Oz and eaten-well we had best not say what he had eaten!
It was the Cowardly Lion who had coaxed the Hungry Tiger to the capitol. The Cowardly Lion, himself, had come there with Dorothy and the Scarecrow and grown so fond of the place and its people that he had returned to the jungle for his old friend, the Hungry Tiger. And like the Cowardly Lion, the Hungry Tiger had never been able to tear himself away from this dear and delightful city. Indeed life without the love of Dorothy, Betsy and Trot, the trust and affection of little Ozma, and the companionship of all the merry dwellers in the castle, would not be worth a soup bone. So the Hungry Tiger had never gone back, but at times the longing for real tiger food almost overcame him.
“I wonder if stuffing would help,” sighed the poor beast, licking his chops hungrily. “I wonder-”
“What?” wheezed an oily voice, almost in his ear. The Hungry Tiger, supposing himself to be
alone, had spoken aloud, and springing up found himself face to face with an ugly, red-faced and exceedingly disagreeable looking stranger. He was dressed in robes of pink, gold embroidered slippers and a simply enormous turban, that wagged from side to side as he talked. An oddly twisted cane swung from his left wrist and as he extended his hand in greeting, the Hungry Tiger jumped back in alarm, for the stranger’s thumb was blazing away merrily. It was Ippty, Chief Scribe of Rash, for the hurry-cane had brought him straight to the royal gardens of the Emerald City of Oz.
“Am I addressing the Hungry Tiger of Oz?” inquired Ippty. “And are you still hungry?” he asked eagerly.
“What if I am?” growled the Hungry Tiger, blinking suspiciously at Irasha’s singular messenger. “What if I am?”
“Come with me,” said Ippty, mysteriously. “Come with me, famous and famished member of the feline family, and you will never know hunger more!”
“Who are you?” rumbled the Hungry Tiger, sitting up and beginning to pant a little from astonishment. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“I am Ippty, Chief Scribe of Irasha the Rough, and I am here to offer you an important position at the Court of Rash. Come to Rash,” begged Ippty, glancing uneasily over his shoulder, for he was not anxious to meet any of the Oz celebrities. “Come, before we are discovered!”
“Rash!” coughed the Hungry Tiger impatiently. “Why should I go to that measly little Kingdom when I am perfectly happy and contented here?”
“Because!” Bending over and splattering the Hungry Tiger with hot candle grease from his thumb, Ippty began whispering earnestly in his ear. At first, the Hungry Tiger’s tail lashed and twirled with fury, but as Ippty continued, he grew calmer, and a queer longing crept into his great yellow eyes.
“Stand back fellow,” he mumbled crossly, “you will singe off my whiskers, and kindly remove your pencil from my eye.
“But you will come?” Straightening up, Ippty put his bristly hand behind him and regarded the Hungry Tiger expectantly. “Not less than one prisoner a day, sometimes as many as ten,” he repeated persuasively.
“Humph!” grunted the tiger, half closing his eyes. Already Ippty’s wicked plan was beginning to tempt him. Surely eating criminals would not be wrong, or at least, not so very wrong.
“And these prisoners are dangerous fellows, I suppose?” he asked casually, trying to appear careless and unconcerned about the whole queer business.
“Villains, thieves and robbers, rascally fat rogues who are a menace to the country. By eating them you will be doing Rash a real service,” Ippty assured him.
“And where is Rash?” asked the Hungry Tiger, waving his tail inquiringly.
“In the southwestern corner of Ev,” answered the Scribe, with a wave that nearly put out his thumb. “And if you are ready, dear beast, we will start at once.
“Ev!” spluttered the tiger, “why that’s miles away. I was there long ago, when Ozma, Dorothy and Billina rescued Prince Evardo from the Gnome King. Too far!” yawned the Hungry Tiger, rolling over on the dewy grass. “I’m too tired for such a journey.”
“No trip at all!” Ippty touched the hurry cane and in a few words explained its curious mechanism, following it up with such a tempting description of the Rash prisoners that the Hungry Tiger’s appetite got the better of his conscience.
“I’ll go,” he agreed gruffly, “but only for a few days, remember.” Ippty said nothing, but smiled wickedly to himself. Then, stuffing the directions for their return into the hurry cane, he sprang upon the Hungry Tiger’s back. Next instant, in a flash of fire and smoke, they had disappeared from the garden.
“What was that?” gasped Dorothy, clutching Ozma by the sleeve. Both little girls, crouched behind a button bush, had seen the strange flash.
“Lightning, I guess!” shuddered Ozma. “Let’s run back to the castle, Dorothy. A thunder Storm’s coming!”
CHAPTER 3
The Hungry Tiger in Rash
IT WAS night time when Ippty and the Hungry Tiger arrived at the pink palace. Travelling by hurry cane is a hair-raising experience, let me tell you. Showing the breathless beast to a luxurious apartment, the Chief Scribe hurried off to the
Pasha, and until long after midnight the two whispered and conferred together. Of course it was about the Hungry Tiger that they talked. “A saucy but serviceable brute.” finished Ippty, blowing out his thumb, “and he will require watching, Your Highness, for would not a tiger fed on criminals grow dangerous?”
“We’ll lock him up in the prison courtyard,” declared Irashi, rubbing his hands gleefully together, “then there’ll be no chance of his running away or chewing off our heads. Good work, old Butter-tub, I’ll raise your wages for this.” And clapping his Chief Scribe on the back, Irashi tumbled into bed and was soon snoring loudly.
The Hungry Tiger did not find falling asleep so easy. Already he regretted his rash action in coming with Ippty. Padding up and down the big bedroom, he began anxiously to reflect upon the duties of his new office. Was it right or wrong to eat the Rash criminals? What would Ozma think if she knew? The gentle face of the little fairy kept rising reproachfully between him and the thought of the fat and tempting prisoners. “I’ll stay just a few days,” groaned the poor tiger at last, trying to put Ozma out of his mind, “and only eat the very worst and wickedest ones. I hope they’ll not taste too bad,” he yawned, sinking down wearily on the soft pink rug, “nor have too many knives and swords in their pockets. Hah, hoh, hum!” With a great yawn, the tired tiger rolled over and fell into a troubled sleep.
A shrill blast of trumpets wakened him next morning and a few moments later Ippty came to conduct him to the Pasha. Irashi had craftily arranged to receive the Hungry Tiger in the prison courtyard, and surrounded by the Rash Guardsmen, with Fizzenpop standing anxiously at his side, he waited for the tiger to appear. The walk from the palace to the prison was not long, but it gave the Hungry Tiger quite a glimpse of the country and the people. The palace and all of the cottages and stores were of pink stone. Pink trees lined the pink marble walks and even the sky had a rosy glow. The Rashers, themselves, hurrying to and fro in their tremendous flapping turbans, oddly quilted robes and soft pink slippers, seemed pleasant enough fellows and again the Hungry Tiger’s conscience began to trouble him. But it was too late to turn back now, so he stalked uncomfortably after Ippty. The prison itself looked quite like
a wing of the pink palace and unsuspectingly the Hungry Tiger passed through the great golden gates and into a high walled court.
“Ah hah!” exclaimed Irashi, as he advanced majestically to the center of the courtyard. “So here he is at last, the famous and famished tiger of Oz. And in uniform, too. Is it not splendid that the future jailer of Rash should wear stripes,” chuckled the Pasha, poking Fizzenpop playfully in the ribs. “Even now our prisoners will go behind the bars-after they are eaten,” he whispered hoarsely, fearing Fizzenpop might not get the joke. Ippty burst into a roar, but the Grand Vizier, after one look at the huge figure of the tiger, began to tremble from top to toe. The Hungry Tiger, himself, was not at all pleased with his reception.
“Are you laughing at me” he growled, lashing his tail and showing so many teeth the Rash Guardsmen took to their pink heels. “Are you laughing at ME?”
“No! No, certainly not,” grunted Irashi, moving hurriedly toward the gates. “I hope you will be most comfortable and happy here.” At each word, Irashi took a great leap, followed closely by Ippty and Fizzenpop. By the time he finished his sentence and before the Hungry Tiger realized what was happening, all three were on the other side of the gates and the tiger, himself, was locked fast in the courtyard. “Stay here, you saucy monster.” puffed Irashi, shaking his scepter playfully, and taking Fizzenpop by one arm and Ippty by the other, he waddled off, leaving the Hungry Tiger to reflect upon his folly. First he hurled himself again and again at the golden gates, then he ran round and round the prison yard examining every inch of the high walls. But it was useless. There was not so much as a chink in the marble blocks. Raging with anger at Irashi and disgusted with himself for being so easily caught, he crouched down in a gloomy corner of the yard to think. All choice in the matter of eating the Rash prisoners was now removed, for, as he sadly reflected, there would probably be nothing else to eat. But eating prisoners, when you are free and happy, and eating prisoners because there is nothing else are entirely different matters and already half the pleasure was gone from the experiment. How was he to escape from this miserable little monarch? Would Dorothy and Betsy miss him? Why, oh why, had he not listened to the voice of his conscience or even had himself stuffed, as the Wizard suggested?
Blinking his eyes mournfully, the Hungry Tiger began to feel sorry not only for the Rash prisoners, but dreadfully sorry for himself, for was he not a prisoner, too? He had plenty of time to feel sorry, for not a soul came near him all day-not even a Rash mouse. There was a tub of water in the corner of the yard, but nothing to eat, and as the shadows grew longer and longer the poor tiger grew hungrier and hungrier. Betsy’s party seemed years ago and when, toward evening, shrill screams from the wall announced the approach of Irashi and the guards, he looked up almost hopefully to see whether they were bringing a prisoner. They were. Propped up between two guards, and advancing most unwillingly, was a tall turbaned figure.
“Here!” shouted Irashi, leaning far over the wall, “here is your supper. Eat this rogue at once. He has wakened me from my sacred nap with his horrible howling.”
“I suppose I’ll have to,” mumbled the Hungry Tiger uncomfortably to himself, and growling to keep his courage up and his conscience down, he advanced toward the wall just as the guardsmen dropped the luckless Rasher over. He landed lightly on the balls of his feet and after one look at the Hungry Tiger pulled his turban over his eyes and began to screech with terror.
“Eat him up! Shut him up! What’s the matter, have you no teeth?” bawled Irashi covering his
ears.
“I never dine till ten o’clock,” answered the Hungry Tiger stiffly. He was not going to be bullied by the wretched little sovereign of Rash. “And I never eat until I am alone,” he growled raising his roar above the wails of the prisoner.
“Suit yourself,” grumbled Irashi. But secretly he was disappointed. To watch the Hungry Tiger devour the prisoner would have been a real treat for the wicked little Pasha. Covering both ears to drown the poor fellow’s doleful yells, he scrambled down the steps on the other side of the wall. “We’ll return later to see if he is eaten,” puffed the little Pasha, turning back toward the castle, and the guardsmen, exchanging uneasy glances, clanked after him. As soon as they were alone, the Hungry Tiger approached the prisoner.
“Would you mind stopping that noise?” he begged earnestly. “You’re really spoiling my supper.
“Your supper?” gulped the Rasher, trembling violently, “Do you expect me to submit to eating without a sound?”
“Well, I wish that you would,” sighed the tiger hopefully. “I never cared for music with my meals. Now don’t be frightened, I won’t hurt you-much. If you were not so tall, I’d swallow you whole.”
“Oh!” groaned the prisoner falling upon his knees, “Have you no heart? No conscience? Are you really cruel enough to devour a poor fellow like me?” At each word, the Hungry Tiger recoiled a bit further.
“But what can I do? I’ve nothing else to eat and it is the Rash law that you should perish. By
the way, what was your crime?” he asked sadly. Now that the time for eating a live man was at hand, he found himself curiously disturbed.
“I’m a singer,” began the prisoner, in a choked and frightened voice. “This afternoon, hoping to earn a few Rash pence, I stopped beneath the palace balcony and-” Straightening up and throwing out his chest, the singer burst into tears and song, mingling them so thoroughly the Hungry Tiger was soon crying like a baby himself. Without the tears, the song went something like this:
“Oh why must lovely roses die? Oh why, snif! snif! Oh why, say why? Oh why must hay be cut and mown In its first hey-day? Groan, snif, groan!
And why must grass be trodden down And trees cut up to build a town? Should little lambs grow
into chops And hang around in butcher shops? No! No! I weep, it is too sad. Snif, snuffle, snif, I feel so sad!”
“So do I!” roared the Hungry Tiger. “Stop! Stop! I am positively ill. What’s that?” That was a large bunch of bananas. It came whistling over the wall, followed by three onions, a sausage, a squash pie and a head of cabbage.
“They always throw things when I sing,” sobbed the singer, drying his eyes on his pink sleeve.
“Pass me that sausage, ‘ gulped the Hungry Tiger in a faint voice.
“Are-aren’t you going to eat me?” stuttered the sad singer, offering the sausage fearfully and
jumping back as if he expected the tiger to snap off his arm. Between bites, and the sausage took only two, the Hungry Tiger shook his head.
“Not now,” he answered wearily. “I might have swallowed you, but that song! Never! A man full of music like that would ruin my digestion. How’s the pie?”
“Squashed,” said the singer, in a depressed whisper. “Try the onions.” He held them out hopefully, but the Hungry Tiger only shuddered.
“Eat them yourself,” he advised gloomily, you seem to enjoy crying.” Reaching for a banana, the Hungry Tiger ripped off the skin and swallowed it whole. Three more, he treated in the same reckless fashion. Then licking his whiskers, he regarded the sad singer reproachfully. “You may go now,” he said gruffly. “Your singing is outrageous, but you are neither wicked enough to satisfy my conscience nor fat enough to satisfy my appetite. Go-go-be-fore-”
“But how can I go,” moaned the singer, waving despairingly at the high walls. I do not know whether his tears were from grief, gratitude or onions. (He had eaten all three by this time.)
L. Frank Baum - Oz 20 Page 2