LITMIR.BIZ

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don’t you marry the Queen? And then you can both rule,” suggested the WoggleBug.

      Jinjur glared at the insect fiercely. “Why don’t you send her back to her mother, where she belongs?” asked Jack Pumpkinhead.

      Jinjur frowned.

      “Why don’t you shut her up in a closet until she behaves herself, and promises to be good?” enquired Tip. Jinjur’s lip curled scornfully.

      “Or give her a good shaking!” added the SawHorse.

      “No,” said the Tin Woodman, “we must treat the poor girl with gentleness. Let us give her all the Jewels she can carry, and send her away happy and contented.”

      At this Queen Jinjur laughed aloud, and the next minute clapped her pretty hands together thrice, as if for a signal.

      “You are very absurd creatures,” said she; “but I am tired of your nonsense and have no time to bother with you longer.”

      While the monarch and his friends listened in amazement to this impudent speech, a startling thing happened. The Tin Woodman’s axe was snatched from his grasp by some person behind him, and he found himself disarmed and helpless. At the same instant a shout of laughter rang in the ears of the devoted band, and turning to see whence this came they found themselves surrounded by the Army of Revolt, the girls bearing in either hand their glistening knitting-needles. The entire throne room seemed to be filled with the rebels, and the Scarecrow and his comrades realized that they were prisoners.

      “You see how foolish it is to oppose a woman’s wit,” said Jinjur, gaily; “and this event only proves that I am more fit to rule the Emerald City than a Scarecrow. I bear you no ill will, I assure you; but lest you should prove troublesome to me in the future I shall order you all to be destroyed. That is, all except the boy, who belongs to old Mombi and must be restored to her keeping. The rest of you are not human, and therefore it will not be wicked to demolish you. The SawHorse and the Pumpkinhead’s body I will have chopped up for kindling-wood; and the pumpkin shall be made into tarts. The Scarecrow will do nicely to start a bonfire, and the tin man can be cut into small pieces and fed to the goats. As for this immense WoggleBug—”

      “Highly Magnified, if you please!” interrupted the insect.

      “I think I will ask the cook to make green-turtle soup of you,” continued the Queen, reflectively.

      The WoggleBug shuddered.

      “Or, if that won’t do, we might use you for a Hungarian goulash, stewed and highly spiced,” she added, cruelly.

      This programme of extermination was so terrible that the prisoners looked upon one another in a panic of fear. The Scarecrow alone did not give way to despair. He stood quietly before the Queen and his brow was wrinkled in deep thought as he strove to find some means to escape.

      While thus engaged he felt the straw within his breast move gently. At once his expression changed from sadness to joy, and raising his hand he quickly unbuttoned the front of his jacket.

      This action did not pass unnoticed by the crowd of girls clustering about him, but none of them suspected what he was doing until a tiny grey mouse leaped from his bosom to the floor and scampered away between the feet of the Army of Revolt. Another mouse quickly followed; then another and another, in rapid succession. And suddenly such a scream of terror went up from the Army that it might easily have filled the stoutest heart with consternation. The flight that ensued turned to a stampede, and the stampede to a panic.

      For while the startled mice rushed wildly about the room the Scarecrow had only time to note a whirl of skirts and a twinkling of feet as the girls disappeared from the palace—pushing and crowding one another in their mad efforts to escape.

      The Queen, at the first alarm, stood up on the cushions of the throne and began to dance frantically upon her tiptoes. Then a mouse ran up the cushions, and with a terrified leap poor Jinjur shot clear over the head of the Scarecrow and escaped through an archway—never pausing in her wild career until she had reached the city gates.

      So, in less time than I can explain, the throne room was deserted by all save the Scarecrow and his friends, and the WoggleBug heaved a deep sigh of relief as he exclaimed:

      “Thank goodness, we are saved!”

      “For a time, yes;” answered the Tin Woodman. “But the enemy will soon return, I fear.”

      “Let us bar all the entrances to the palace!” said the Scarecrow. “Then we shall have time to think what is best to be done.”

      So all except Jack Pumpkinhead, who was still tied fast to the SawHorse, ran to the various entrances of the royal palace and closed the heavy doors, bolting and locking them securely. Then, knowing that the Army of Revolt could not batter down the barriers in several days, the adventurers gathered once more in the throne room for a council of war.

      16. The Scarecrow Takes Time to Think

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      “It seems to me,” began the Scarecrow, when all were again assembled in the throne room, “that the girl Jinjur is quite right in claiming to be Queen. And if she is right, then I am wrong, and we have no business to be occupying her palace.”

      “But you were the King until she came,” said the WoggleBug, strutting up and down with his hands in his pockets; “so it appears to me that she is the interloper instead of you.”

      “Especially as we have just conquered her and put her to flight,” added the Pumpkinhead, as he raised his hands to turn his face toward the Scarecrow.

      “Have we really conquered her?” asked the Scarecrow, quietly. “Look out of the window, and tell me what you see.”

      Tip ran to the window and looked out.

      “The palace is surrounded by a double row of girl soldiers,” he announced.

      “I thought so,” returned the Scarecrow. “We are as truly their prisoners as we were before the mice frightened them from the palace.”

      “My friend is right,” said Nick Chopper, who had been polishing his breast with a bit of chamois-leather. “Jinjur is still the Queen, and we are her prisoners.”

      “But I hope she cannot get at us,” exclaimed the Pumpkinhead, with a shiver of fear. “She threatened to make tarts of me, you know.”

      “Don’t worry,” said the Tin Woodman. “It cannot matter greatly. If you stay shut up here you will spoil in time, anyway. A good tart is far more admirable than a decayed intellect.”

      “Very true,” agreed the Scarecrow.

      “Oh, dear!” moaned Jack; “what an unhappy lot is mine! Why, dear father, did you not make me out of tin—or even out of straw—so that I would keep indefinitely.”

      “Shucks!” returned Tip, indignantly. “You ought to be glad that I made you at all.” Then he added, reflectively, “everything has to come to an end, some time.”

      “But I beg to remind you,” broke in the WoggleBug, who had a distressed look in his bulging, round eyes, “that this terrible Queen Jinjur suggested making a goulash of me—Me! the only Highly Magnified and Thoroughly Educated WoggleBug in the wide, wide world!”

      “I think it was a brilliant idea,” remarked the Scarecrow, approvingly.

      “Don’t you imagine he would make a better soup?” asked the Tin Woodman, turning toward his friend.

      “Well, perhaps,” acknowledged the Scarecrow.

      The WoggleBug groaned.

      “I can see, in my mind’s eye,” said he, mournfully, “the goats eating small pieces of my dear comrade, the Tin Woodman, while my soup is being cooked on a bonfire built of the SawHorse and

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