Dorothy and the Dummy
On the same bright morning that the golden goose feather had come flashing down into Ozma's garden in the Emerald City, Dorothy had said good-bye to her old friends in Perhaps City and started gaily homeward.
Her visit on Maybe Mountain, where old Peer Haps holds court and the Forgetful Poet makes verses from morning until night, had been so interesting and jolly that Dorothy still felt happy and she went skipping down the steep mountain path almost as fast as the little brook that rushed along at her side. As she skipped along she sang this merry ditty:
"I saw one day, the last of May,
A foolish and absurd
Old yellow fellow calling 'Hello,
I'm a banana bird!'
"A banana bird! My eyes grew blurred;
I took to my toes and heels,
Then away he flew with a flap or two,
Of his yellow banana peels."
"I must try to remember that for Scraps," Dorothy giggled softly to herself. Her head was full of the Forgetful Poet's ridiculous rhymes, and she was so busy remembering them and the many bits of news she had for Ozma that she reached the bottom of the mountain in almost no time and, without noticing where she was going, turned into an inviting small lane. There was a sign swinging from a yellow post at the head of the lane, but Dorothy never saw it. She knew she was in the familiar Winkie Country, for the wind mills, flapping lazily in the morning breeze, were yellow, the houses were yellow and if that were not proof enough, the lane was full of daisies and buttercups and edged with golden peach and pear trees.
"I don't believe," sighed Dorothy, hurrying happily along under the lovely branches, "I don't believe there is any place so interesting as Oz. How pretty this road is!"
Stooping down, she scooped up a bit of the sand that made the bed of the lane sparkle like silver in the sunlight. It was silver, to be perfectly truthful, and with a little smile Dorothy slipped some into her pocket.
"How surprised anyone in Kansas would be to find silver dust in the road," thought the little girl, recalling her old home with a little chuckle of amusement. "No, nothing like this ever happens in America at all, and yet—" Dorothy paused to pick an unusually large buttercup and twirl it absently under her chin, "and yet I sometimes wish I were in America again, just to see—"
Wheee—ee! Off flew her hat, up flew her heels and in a whirl of silver dust and peach blossoms, off flew Dorothy herself. Off, up, away and down again, so swiftly she had not even time to swallow.
"Thirty miles to Hollywood," said the sign near the huge rock where she sat blinking with shock and astonishment.
"Hollywood!" panted Dorothy. "Why that's in California and California's in the United States. But how did I get here?" There was no one to answer her question, and as she couldn't answer it herself she jumped up, smoothed out her dress and looked anxiously about. A smooth white road ran evenly ahead, one side sloped down into a deep ravine, on the other side was a long, uninteresting stretch of meadow. Through the trees at the bottom of the ravine, Dorothy caught a glimpse of some houses.
Feeling terribly puzzled and not entirely pleased, she left the road and started down through the trees. Halfway down, she paused to make sure she was going toward the houses, when the furious clatter of hoofs on the road above made her glance up in dismay. A great company of horsemen, armed with pikes, staves, swords and pitch forks were galloping pell mell along the highway. Giving a scream of fright, Dorothy saw them turn and plunge down the ravine. With a smash and a crash they came riding upon her. Gasping in terror, Dorothy sprang behind a big tree and in a whirl of sticks, dust and color the horsemen pounded past. They were dressed in green doublets and hose. They wore wide feathered hats and were not at all the sort of folk Dorothy expected to find in America.
With her hand pressed to her heart, Dorothy peered around the tree. As she did so the wild riders reined up short and two of the most villainous looking snatched a green-cloaked figure from the saddle and hurled him violently over the cliff. Then swinging their horses round, they galloped off as suddenly as they had come, leaving Dorothy, as she afterwards explained to Sir Hokus of Pokes, perfectly petrified. Not until the last green doublet flashed out of sight did she dare stir. Then breathlessly she tiptoed to the edge of the cliff and looked over.
"Oooh—they've killed him!" gasped Dorothy, in horrified tones. Now many another small girl would have run off at once, but Dorothy had been in too many strange adventures for that. Instead she ran just as fast as she could down the steep, stony path to the bottom of the ravine. There on the stones, with his head in a shallow brook, lay the unfortunate rider. Close beside him was a great jewel-studded crown.
"A king!" marvelled Dorothy, who had met a great many monarchs in Oz. "But what is he doing here? And why?"
Holding her breath, she leaned over and touched the quiet figure. Then, taking her courage in both hands, she seized him by the arms and dragged him out of the brook. He came so suddenly and unexpectedly that Dorothy fell over backwards. More mystified than ever, she picked herself up.
"Mercy!" stuttered the little girl, turning him over gingerly. "He's not alive at all; he's stuffed. Why he's only a dummy."
Half relieved and half disappointed, she gazed into the bland face of the fallen king. It was a handsomely painted face, which even the brook mud could not entirely spoil, and it was topped by a splendid silver wig. But what on earth did it all mean? If Dorothy had been in Oz she might have found it more understandable, for strange things are always happening in Oz. But in America! Dorothy could not puzzle it out. Sitting down on a fallen tree she stared at the dummy in perfect astonishment. How had she come here herself? How was she to get back to the Emerald City? Who were the wild green riders, and why had they flung the dummy over the cliff?
"I wish," sighed Dorothy at last, looking pensively at the long green figure stretched so solemnly at her feet, "I wish you were alive and then maybe—"
"Maybe what?" wheezed the dummy, raising his head about an inch and blinking at her curiously. "Say, who pulled me out of the brook?"
Dorothy gave a little scream and then, recovering herself and swallowing hard, answered breathlessly, "I did!"
"Well, I'm supposed to be dead," puffed the dummy reproachfully. "Try to get that through your hair, can't you? I've just been thrown over the cliff by the revolutionists. You shouldn't have rescued me, little girl. It will spoil the picture. Is there a camera man anywhere about?"
"Camera?" gasped Dorothy faintly, "Oh, I don't know." It had been a long time since Dorothy had been in America, and there had been very few moving pictures in those old days on the Kansas farm. But Trot, who had come to Oz from San Francisco, had told Dorothy a lot about the screen stars and moving picture stunts. As she recalled Trot's stories, Dorothy clapped her hands. Smiling at the dummy she said, "I know! You're a moving picture dummy, aren't you?"
"Right the first time," said the dummy, as he raised his head another inch and smiled approvingly at Dorothy. "I take all the risks," he explained complacently. "I fall for the stars. Now this star was a foolish old King, but the last star I fell for was a shooting star—a cow-boy, you know. I was thrown from a horse under a stampeding herd of steers," he mused dreamily, "and had to be entirely remade.
"But you had better run along now, little girl. I'm supposed to be dead. It doesn't hurt," he observed graciously, as Dorothy continued to stare at him in amazement. "I've died a hundred times and know all about it. Run along now, like a good child." Lowering his head, he settled down resignedly in the mud and stared stolidly up at the sky.
"Well, of course if you prefer to be dead," began Dorothy a bit stiffly, "I'll go. But why you should want to lie there in the mud, when the sun is shining and everything so nice and interesting, I don't see. You're not dead at all. You're as alive as I am!"
The dummy sat bolt upright at Dorothy's words and started to pinch himself curiously. "Why so I am," he puffed, rubbing his nose thoughtfully with his stuffed and pudgy finger. "Sit down again my dear, until I get used to the idea of it, will you? It feels very odd and dangerous!" He shook one leg, then the other and rose unsteadily to his feet.
"Hurrah!" cried Dorothy "Why I believe you can walk. Here, lean on this." She thrust a stick into the dummy's hand and after a few uncertain wobblings, he began to pace briskly up and down, his green velvet cloak slapping merrily at his heels. Dorothy was so interested in his progress that she almost forgot how ridiculous it was for a dummy to be alive, but as he lowered himself carefully to the log beside her, she began to wonder again how it had all happened.
"Were you ever alive before?" asked Dorothy curiously.
The dummy shook his head. "If talking and walking around like this is being alive, then I never have," said the dummy positively. "What shall I do now?"
"Why anything you like," laughed Dorothy, beginning to enjoy herself.
"But a dummy can only do as he's told," sighed the stuffed king doubtfully. "And who are you my dear? Have you run off to go into the movies?" He looked at Dorothy critically from all sides. "Not bad at all," he murmured approvingly. "They'll be glad to get you, I'm sure. Just stay here with me and presently they will come in a truck and collect us. Yes, that's the ticket, we'll wait until we are collected."
"Well, I'm not a ticket," giggled Dorothy, "and I don't want to be collected or go into the movies either. I'm going straight back to Oz, as soon as I can."
"Oz?" queried the dummy, pressing his finger to his forehead. "Is that a place or a tonic?"
"It's a place," sputtered Dorothy. "Oh dear, wouldn't Ozma be surprised to see you! You know, you're awfully like Scraps and the Scarecrow."
"They sound rather awful," smiled the dummy, folding his cloak around him dubiously. "Are they dummies too?"
"No, but they're stuffed," explained Dorothy, leaning over to poke him experimentally in the chest. "You talk very queerly. I do wonder what you are stuffed with!"
"Hair, I think," yawned the dummy indifferently, and leaning over he picked up his crown and set it jauntily upon the side of his head. "I wouldn't go back to that Oz place if I were you," he advised earnestly. "Stay here and you can see a moving picture every day—exciting and adventurous stuff too."
"But what's the fun of looking at other folks having adventures," sniffed Dorothy. "In Oz we have adventures ourselves, and in Oz I'm a Princess and live in a castle."
The dummy turned and looked at her respectfully. "A Princess," he murmured in a faint voice. "Oh!"
"Have you any name?" asked Dorothy, rather ashamed of her boast about being a Princess.
"Well, there's a number on the back of my neck, but I don't think I have any name," answered the stuffed man uneasily. "I'm just a dummy, you know."
"But I wouldn't like to call you a dummy," said Dorothy gently.
"Well that's what I am," insisted the stuffed king cheerfully, "a regular dummy."
Tiptoeing round back of him, Dorothy pulled out a little tag on the back of his collar. "202-B-E-10-B-47" read the little girl. "My, what a long number."
"Yes, isn't it," replied the dummy proudly. "Couldn't you call me by that?"
"I could never remember it," objected Dorothy. "Let—me—see, I might call you Clifford 'cause you fell off a cliff, or Cal, 'cause I found you in California? Do you know, you are dreadfully humpy in spots. Humpy! Why I believe I'll call you Humpy!" cried Dorothy, clapping her hands softly.
"Oooh! Ouch! What's that?" In sudden terror Dorothy clutched at her left shoe.
"I don't care what you call me, but I'd call you very odd!" said the dummy in alarm. "You've grown at least a foot while I've been looking at you. People in this country are supposed to stay the same size," he muttered, edging away uneasily. But Dorothy scarcely heard him. There was a frightful pain in her heart and both shoes pinched so terribly that she screamed aloud. At the same instant all the buttons flew off the back her dress.
"Are you going to burst?" asked the dummy anxiously.
"Oh! Oh! I'm afraid so," gasped the little girl, clutching herself about the waist. At each word she shot up another inch, for Dorothy, who had lived in the Fairy Land of Oz for many years, was suddenly growing up.
In Oz, no one ever grows up, but in America Dorothy would be quite a young lady by this time and, removed from the magical influences of that magical land, she was growing all at once and finding it, as most of the rest of us do, an exceedingly uncomfortable business. Her screams as she grew taller and taller were so piteous that Humpy fell off the log.
"Help! Help! Help!" wailed the dummy, beating his flimsy arms up and down among the leaves.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" panted Dorothy desperately. "I can't stand this another minute. I wish I were back. I wish I were back!"
Next moment there was not a sound in the ravine, nor a person, nor even a dummy. Only a startled squirrel ran up and down the log, chattering with fright and annoyance. Certainly he had seen two people on that log. Well, where were they now? He frisked his tail, he wiggled his nose and scratched his head anxiously. Then, with a little bounce, he gave it up and went off to crack some nuts for supper.
