“You are a man ofjudgment,” he observed in a flattering tone. “Be assured that I will remember this kindness, but what can I do to repay you for mending the cloak?” Scrapper looked thoughtful for a moment while the Patchwork Girl continued to mutter and scold under her breath.
“Is this your slave?” he inquired at last, turning inquisitively to Peter. Ruggedo seemed a little surprised, but to Peter’s disgust and astonishment immediately nodded briskly.
“Well, then,” said Scrapper, “suppose you give us the boy in payment for mending the cloak. Our Queen is not quick enough to do all the work here and he looks strong and willing.”
“I’m not his slave!” burst out Peter wrathfully. “I’ll not stay here, you old simpleton.” But the more he shouted the more Ruggedo nodded and smiled at Scrapper.
“Never mind,” whispered the Patchwork Girl as Peter, on his way to the door bumped Into her, “never mind, I’ll help you.” And with this assurance he was forced to be satisfied. Realizing that Ruggedo meant to keep none of his promises, Peter tried to plan a way to get hold of the cloak first. But the Gnome King, pressing close to the old Quilty seamstress, waved him jealously away, and Scrapper, jerking him roughly by the arm, whirled him off into a corner.
And now the cloak was mended. Shaking the threads from its folds the old grandame held it out to Ruggedo. As she did so, Peter rushed forward impetuously, but the gnome was too quick for him. Flinging on the magic garment, Ruggedo vanished from view, only the blue patch on the back of the cloak showing he was still in the room.
Scrapper and the others screamed out in alarm, but Peter, throwing up his arm, cried out loudly, “Take him to Zamagoochie!” In a flash the Gnome King was gone, at least the blue patch was gone, and Peter, stamping his foot angrily, turned to the foolish old Quilty.
“Now you’ve done it!” panted the little boy.
“I told you not to help him,” cried Scraps, coming over to stand beside Peter. “You’ll be sorry for this.”
“Oh, keep quiet!” mumbled Scrapper, mopping his forehead with his patched hanky. To tell the truth, the sudden disappearance of the Gnome King had upset him terribly. “I don’t see what you’re fussing about,” he finished fretfully. “Here you have a nice new slave to work for you. Out of my way there!”
Taking the old Quilty woman by the arm, he brushed rudely past Peter, unlocked the door and went out. As the key clicked in the lock, Peter sank down on the floor, the picture of discouragement.
“Why did you say that about Zamagoochie?” asked Scraps, dropping down beside the little boy and regarding him curiously.
“Because it was the first place that came into my head,” explained Peter.
“Jimminy, but I hope it’s a long way from the Emerald City, and I hope something happens to keep him there.”
“Will the cloak take him anywhere he wants to go?” demanded Scraps. Peter nodded gloomily.
“Then good-bye to the Emerald City and Ozma!” moaned Scraps. “Goodbye to all of us.
“Yes, but what’s to be done with the slave?” Grumpy had lifted the lid of the chest again and was regarding Peter with great interest.
“He’s not a slave!” exclaimed Scraps scornfully. “I can tell by his looks, he’s a mortal child like Dorothy and Betsy. How did you find your way to Oz, boy?” Peter was anxious to escape from the castle, but when Scraps assured him that there was no present hope of such a thing, he told her all that had happened since the balloon bird carried him off from Philadelphia. As the story progressed, Grumpy climbed out of the chest and sat as close to Peter as he could possibly squeeze.
“Tell him about us!” urged the little bear, as Peter wound up his story with a description of Kuma Party and his guiding hand. Scraps shook her head impatiently, but when Peter added his voice to Grumpy’s she introduced the pet of the former Queen and gave a brief description of herself and her happy life at the capital. When Peter heard how she had been kidnapped and forced to do all the castle work, he shook his head sympathetically.
“We’ll both run away,” declared Peter, resolutely, “and as you know more about Oz than I do, perhaps we’ll reach the Emerald City ahead of Ruggedo.”
“But first you must escape from the castle,” the little bear reminded them sagely.
“How will you do that?”
“I wish there had been a little more magic in that casket,” sighed Scraps. “All you have left is the emerald. Let me see the emerald, Peter.” Peter pulled out the sorcerer’s stone and handed it over to Scraps and, as he did, felt the note that Kuma’s hand had thrust into his pocket. Opening it eagerly, Peter followed the Patchwork Girl to the light.
But as they reached the center table, the candle which had been burning lower and lower gave a final sputter: and went out, leaving them in total darkness.
“Botheration!” cried Peter in exasperation. “Now what shall we do?”
“Go to sleep,” yawned the little bear. “whenever you don’t know what to do, go to sleep. That’s my advice. Here, lean on me.
“Why don’t you?” suggested Scraps, feeling her way carefully back to the rocker.
“Mortal folk need rest, but as I do not, I’ll sit and plan our escape.” Grumpy’s advice did seem sensible and, as Peter was very tired, he curled down beside little bear and soon did go to sleep, his head resting comfortably on Grumpy’s soft shoulder. In his hand he grasped Kurna’s note, and in in his dreams imagined himself already in the the Emerald City, fighting to defend the little Queen of all Oz.
CHAPTER 10
Escape from Patch at Last
WHEN Peter awakened next morning, he thought for a few moments he was still aboard ship. But he soon realized that the up and down motion he was experiencing was merely the deep breathing of the little bear. Without disturbing Grumpy, he straightened up and rubbed his eyes. Scraps was over by the window turning Soob’s emerald over and over in her cotton fingers. Reminded of the letter he had been about to read when the candle went out, Peter felt around till he found Kuma’s note.
Hurrying over to the Patchwork Girl, he spread it open and quickly read its contents.
“If you ever need a helping hand, send for mine,” said the note. “Write directions on this paper and toss into the air.”
“Well, hurrah!” exclaimed Peter, showing the note to Scraps. “Kuma will lend us a hand any time we need it.”
“Three cheers! Four laughs! Five grins-a bow! Send for it quick, I need it now,” cried the Patchwork Girl. “In a minute I’ll have to cook, sweep, dust, scrub and make beds.
Why, an extra hand will be wonderful. Send for it, Peter. Send for it right way. You’re a slave too, remember.”
“I was thinking it might unlock the doors and help us escape,” mused the little boy, wrinkling up his brows. “Could you read the markings on the emerald?”
“No,” admitted Scraps, handing back the stone, “but keep it safely, Peter. You never know when or where magic will work in this country and we need all the magic we can find to get to the Emerald City before Ruggedo.”
“I wonder where he is now?” worried Peter. “Zamagoochie was the country Kuma’s father came from, but I wonder where it is and whether Rug is still there or whether he has reached the Emerald City and turned Ozma to a canary?”
“Stop! Stop!” begged Scraps. “Let’s stop worrying and try to think. If we send for Kuma’s hand now, when all the Quilties are working in the fields, we will soon be captured, even if we escape from the castle. We’ll have to wait till night,” sighed the Patchwork Girl, “though how I’m going to stand another day here I don’t see!”
“Never mind,” said Peter sympathetically, “I’ll help.”
“I’ll help, too!” volunteered Grumpy, rolling over on his side and yawning tremendously. “It won’t be as bad as growling all the time and that’s how I helped Cross Patch!”
“Sh-hh!” warned Scraps, “Here they come! Look out for the Scissor Bird, Peter, he’s dreadfully careless wi
th his bill.” Thrusting Kuma’s note into his pocket and assuming as defiant an attitude as he well could, Peter waited for the door to open, which it presently did. In came Scrapper, the Scissor Bird on his shoulder and Piecer staggering under a great pile of coats and other garments that had been sent in to be mended.
“Good morning, Slave!” Scrapper bowed stiffly to Peter and then to Scraps.
“Kindly prepare breakfast, at once!”
“Oh scrapple!” scolded the Patchwork Girl. “Not scrapple, eggs,” said Piecer, setting down his pile of garments. “And when you have finished with breakfast, please sort these.”
“Why don’t you sort them yourself,” suggested Peter boldly, but as the Scissor Bird made a dash in his direction he hastily sprang behind Scraps.
“It’s an outrage to expect a Queen to do all the work,” began Scraps, settling her spectacles severely. “Ozma never does a stroke of work. Ozma-”
“Ozma?” shrilled the Scissor Bird. “Well, every time you think you’re Ozma, look in the glass. Come along, you lazy creature!” Circling over the Patchwork Girl’s head and making playful snips at her yarn, the Scissor Bird drove her ahead of him toward the castle kitchen. Peter and Grumpy followed cautiously, conversing in indignant whispers.
Peter had often been camping and, seeing how terribly unhandy Scraps was with the cooking utensils, he prepared the breakfast himself. Then he set the table and carried the eggs, nicely fried, to the two Quilties, who sat at ease in the shabby dining room. The Scissor Bird ate a saucer of calico scraps and Grumpy a loaf of bread and an apple. After being assured that the Patchwork Girl herself would eat nothing, Peter fried himself an egg and sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy himself. The scissor bird was too busy eating to bother them for a moment and, availing himself of this opportunity, Peter began to talk in a low voice to Scraps.
“Why did you wish for a dozen eggs when you first saw Ruggedo?” he asked curiously.
“Because eggs are poison to gnomes,” whispered Scraps. “They are more afraid of eggs than of bombshells and they cannot even stay in the same room with one.”
“Hm-m!” mused Peter thoughtfully, “I’ll remember that. How is it,” he asked presently, “that Grumpy can talk?”
“All the animals in Oz talk,” explained Scraps in a matter of fact voice. “Just wait till you hear the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger!”
“Do they live in the Emerald City?” Peter’s eyes grew round with interest. Scraps nodded enthusiastically, then noticing that the Scissor Bird had finished, she sprang up and began to clear away the dishes. But Grumpy kindly offered to wash them, so hurrying back into the sitting room, Scraps and Peter fell to sorting old clothes. In one pile they put coats, in another dresses, in a third, trousers, and in a fourth, all the shirts needing new cuffs or collars. Conversation was impossible, for the Scissor Bird was never quiet for a moment and soon Peter’s head began to ache from its continuous screeching. Once when he dropped an old cloak, it snipped a lock of his hair and when he struck out at it angrily, it nearly nipped a piece off his ear.
To Scrapper and Piecer, sitting in the doorway, this proved highly amusing and, glaring at the old Quilties, Peter resolved to send for Kuma’s hand at the first opportunity. Grumpy had finished the dishes and, with a gingham apron tied round his waist, was energetically sweeping the floor.
“Don’t you care,” he whispered comfortingly as he passed Peter. “Today won’t last forever!” It seemed like forever to Peter and Scraps, but as they came to the bottom of the pile the Patchwork Girl made a startling discovery. Between a faded vest and a quilted dressing gown lay an old gray sack. As Scraps held it up, she saw a note sticking out of the pocket. The Scissor Bird happened at that moment to be swinging on the chandelier so, snatching out the note, Scraps read it quickly herself and
“The Sandman’s Nap Sack. Will put wearer to sleep at once, read Peter. Then, as Scraps put her finger warningly to her lips, he tucked the Nap Sack beneath his coat.
“We’ll put ‘em all to sleep,” whispered Peter out of the corner of his mouth.
“We’ll send for Kuma’s hand and get away from here!” They soon had a chance to try the Nap Sack, for Piecer and Scrapper, having some work to attend to in the garden, went out and locked the door in their usual manner.
Immediately Scraps threw down a pile of coats and stood up defiantly. “I refuse to work any longer,” she shouted, stamping her foot emphatically. “Hah!” snapped the Scissor Bird, falling off the chandelier and stopping directly in front of Scraps’ nose. “Every time you open your mouth you say something.”
“Yes!” answered Scraps saucily, “and every time you say something you open your mouth.” As the furious creature rushed at the Patchwork Girl, Peter threw the Nap Sack over his head. No sooner had he done so than its shrill voice grew lower and lower, until, with a tired flop, it fell to the floor and lay snoring like a zazagooch, which is the loudest snoring animal in Oz.
“We won’t wait till night. We’ll send the note now, Scraps,” cried Peter triumphantly.
“What’s up? What’s up. Don’t leave me, begged the little bear, crowding close to Peter. “I’m tired of being cross. I want to go some place where I can be pleasant without losing my position.”
“All right! All right!” promised Peter. “But you’ll have to help us, Grumpy. Now keep quiet while I write to Kuma.” Pulling out the crumpled letter, Peter found a pencil and scribbled on the bottom of the page: “We are prisoners in the palace of Patch. Please send us your hand to unlock the doors and help us to escape.” Signing his name hurriedly, Peter tossed the note into the air. It disappeared almost at once and in high excitement the three sat down to await developments. “I believe we could take that Nap Sack off and use it again,” observed Peter after a little silence.
“He might wake up,” objected Scraps.
“But we can easily put him to sleep again. Tiptoeing over to the Scissor Bird, he took off the Nap Sack. As he did there was a crash outside and, hurrying to the window, they saw Kuma’s right arm and hand smashing its way through the glass in the castle door.
“Hurry! Hurry!” cried Scraps. Tearing the work basket from her head she threw it into a corner and flung the crown jewels of Patch after it. “I abdicate!” chuckled the Patchwork Girl, turning expectantly toward the door.
“Now then,” breathed Peter, “let’s all stand together and run like sixty.” “If we stand, how can we run?” mumbled Grumpy, but no one answered the little bear, for at that instant the key turned in the lock, the door opened and in swept the arm of Kuma, a stout club grasped in its hand. Motioning for them to follow, it whizzed down the hallway.
Scrapper, running in from the garden to see what was happening, received a smart blow on the head. Piecer, panting up the steps from the kitchen, was picked up bodily and dropped out of the window.
Through the castle door, down the steps and out of the garden rushed the three adventurers. As they started down the road, a crowd of Quilty men, on their way to the palace with a fresh load of patches, stared at them in astonishment. Then, suddenly realizing that the Queen was escaping, they rushed after her with yells and shouts of disapproval. But the arm of Kuma laid about with the club, seeming to be everywhere at once, and with groans and screams the Quilties fell back. Only three of the bolder ones continued the chase. Over the most persistent of their pursuers Peter flung the Nap Sack and, as he fell snoring by the roadside, Grumpy sent the second flying into a ditch.
Kuma’s club soon disposed of the third and without further interruption they pelted down the crossroads of Patch.
Always Kuma’s hand flashed on ahead, making the way easy, taking down fence bars, opening gates, thrusting aside the branches of trees. Many of the Quilties saw them from the cottage windows, but before they could get down to their doors the strange procession had passed by. Scraps, being magically made and stuffed with cotton, did not tire, but Grumpy and Peter were soon panting with exhaustion. There was
a remedy for even this, however. Throwing down the club, Kuma’s arm jerked first one and then the other into the air, carrying them by turns to the very edge of the little Kingdom.
In a small maple grove, several miles from Patch, they stopped to rest. Peter still had hold of Kuma’s hand and would have liked to keep it longer, but gently disengaging itself, it patted him kindly on the shoulder, shook hands with Scraps and was gone. This time it left no note and regretfully they watched it soar over the tree tops and disappear from view.
“Well,” gasped Peter, leaning back against a tree, “we’re out of Patch and where do we go now, Scraps?”
“South by east, and if I’m right, We’ll reach the capital tonight!” answered the Patchwork Girl cheerfully. “Oh, I hope we do,” puffed Peter, taking a long breath. “Come on, let’s start, I’m rested.”
“Do you realize that the Kingdom of Patch will go to pieces in four days without you?” grunted the little bear, pattering along beside Scraps.
“Let it!” cried Scraps, recklessly turning a cartwheel. “I’ll not be Queen and work all day, I’m the Patchwork Girl of Oz, hurray!”
CHAPTER 11
Scraps meets Sultan of Suds
WALKING slowly at first, and then more briskly, Peter and his companions hurried on in the direction Scraps had pointed out. Grumpy was very helpful, for whenever they were in doubt, the little bear would climb a tree and, after looking all around, would guide them to the best and widest of the roads that ran hither and thither through the pleasant land of the Winkies. After his last climb, Grumpy had reported a village ahead and, quite cheerfully, they trudged along under the banana trees that edged the roadway.
L. Frank Baum - Oz 21 Page 7