“Now,” said Tip to the horse, “you must save us all. Run as fast as you can for the gate of the City, and don’t let anything stop you.”
“All right!” answered the SawHorse, gruffly, and dashed away so suddenly that Tip had to gasp for breath and hold firmly to the post he had driven into the creature’s neck.
Several of the girls, who stood outside guarding the palace, were knocked over by the SawHorse’s mad rush. Others ran screaming out of the way, and only one or two jabbed their knitting-needles frantically at the escaping prisoners. Tip got one small prick in his left arm, which smarted for an hour afterward; but the needles had no effect upon the Scarecrow or Jack Pumpkinhead, who never even suspected they were being prodded.
As for the SawHorse, he made a wonderful record upsetting a fruit cart, overturning several meek looking men, and finally bowling over the new Guardian of the Gate—a fussy little fat woman appointed by General Jinjur.
Nor did the impetuous charger stop then. Once outside the walls of the Emerald City he dashed along the road to the West with fast and violent leaps that shook the breath out of the boy and filled the Scarecrow with wonder.
Jack had ridden at this mad rate once before, so he devoted every effort to holding, with both hands, his pumpkin head upon its stick, enduring meantime the dreadful jolting with the courage of a philosopher.
“Slow him up! Slow him up!” shouted the Scarecrow. “My straw is all shaking down into my legs.”
But Tip had no breath to speak, so the SawHorse continued his wild career unchecked and with unabated speed.
Presently they came to the banks of a wide river, and without a pause the wooden steed gave one final leap and launched them all in mid-air.
A second later they were rolling, splashing and bobbing about in the water, the horse struggling frantically to find a rest for its feet and its riders being first plunged beneath the rapid current and then floating upon the surface like corks.
10. The Journey to the Tin Woodman
Tip was well soaked and dripping water from every angle of his body. But he managed to lean forward and shout in the ear of the SawHorse:
“Keep still, you fool! Keep still!”
The horse at once ceased struggling and floated calmly upon the surface, its wooden body being as buoyant as a raft.
“What does that word ‘fool’ mean?” enquired the horse.
“It is a term of reproach,” answered Tip, somewhat ashamed of the expression. “I only use it when I am angry.”
“Then it pleases me to be able to call you a fool, in return,” said the horse. “For I did not make the river, nor put it in our way; so only a term of, reproach is fit for one who becomes angry with me for falling into the water.”
“That is quite evident,” replied Tip; “so I will acknowledge myself in the wrong.” Then he called out to the Pumpkinhead: “are you all right, Jack?”
There was no reply. So the boy called to the King “are you all right, your majesty?”
The Scarecrow groaned.
“I’m all wrong, somehow,” he said, in a weak voice. “How very wet this water is!”
Tip was bound so tightly by the cord that he could not turn his head to look at his companions; so he said to the SawHorse:
“Paddle with your legs toward the shore.”
The horse obeyed, and although their progress was slow they finally reached the opposite river bank at a place where it was low enough to enable the creature to scramble upon dry land.
With some difficulty the boy managed to get his knife out of his pocket and cut the cords that bound the riders to one another and to the wooden horse. He heard the Scarecrow fall to the ground with a mushy sound, and then he himself quickly dismounted and looked at his friend Jack.
The wooden body, with its gorgeous clothing, still sat upright upon the horse’s back; but the pumpkin head was gone, and only the sharpened stick that served for a neck was visible. As for the Scarecrow, the straw in his body had shaken down with the jolting and packed itself into his legs and the lower part of his body—which appeared very plump and round while his upper half seemed like an empty sack. Upon his head the Scarecrow still wore the heavy crown, which had been sewed on to prevent his losing it; but the head was now so damp and limp that the weight of the gold and jewels sagged forward and crushed the painted face into a mass of wrinkles that made him look exactly like a Japanese pug dog.
Tip would have laughed—had he not been so anxious about his man Jack. But the Scarecrow, however damaged, was all there, while the pumpkin head that was so necessary to Jack’s existence was missing; so the boy seized a long pole that fortunately lay near at hand and anxiously turned again toward the river.
Far out upon the waters he sighted the golden hue of the pumpkin, which gently bobbed up and down with the motion of the waves. At that moment it was quite out of Tip’s reach, but after a time it floated nearer and still nearer until the boy was able to reach it with his pole and draw it to the shore. Then he brought it to the top of the bank, carefully wiped the water from its pumpkin face with his handkerchief, and ran with it to Jack and replaced the head upon the man’s neck.
“Dear me!” were Jack’s first words. “What a dreadful experience! I wonder if water is liable to spoil pumpkins?”
Tip did not think a reply was necessary, for he knew that the Scarecrow also stood in need of his help. So he carefully removed the straw from the King’s body and legs, and spread it out in the sun to dry. The wet clothing he hung over the body of the SawHorse.
“If water spoils pumpkins,” observed Jack, with a deep sigh, “then my days are numbered.”
“I’ve never noticed that water spoils pumpkins,” returned Tip; “unless the water happens to be boiling. If your head isn’t cracked, my friend, you must be in fairly good condition.”
“Oh, my head isn’t cracked in the least,” declared Jack, more cheerfully.
“Then don’t worry,” retorted the boy. “Care once killed a cat.”
“Then,” said Jack, seriously, “I am very glad indeed that I am not a cat.”
The sun was fast drying their clothing, and Tip stirred up his Majesty’s straw so that the warm rays might absorb the moisture and make it as crisp and dry as ever. When this had been accomplished he stuffed the Scarecrow into symmetrical shape and smoothed out his face so that he wore his usual gay and charming expression.
“Thank you very much,” said the monarch, brightly, as he walked about and found himself to be well balanced. “There are several distinct advantages in being a Scarecrow. For if one has friends near at hand to repair damages, nothing very serious can happen to you.”
“I wonder if hot sunshine is liable to crack pumpkins,” said Jack, with an anxious ring in his voice.
“Not at all—not at all!” replied the Scarecrow, gaily. “All you need fear, my boy, is old age. When your golden youth has decayed we shall quickly part company—but you needn’t look forward to it; we’ll discover the fact ourselves, and notify you. But come! Let us resume our journey. I am anxious to greet my friend the Tin Woodman.”
So they remounted the SawHorse, Tip holding to the post, the Pumpkinhead clinging to Tip, and the Scarecrow with both arms around the wooden form of Jack.
“Go