LITMIR.BIZ

      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 Jack Pumpkinhead’s body, and Queen Jinjur watches me boil while she feeds the flames with my friend the Scarecrow!”

      This morbid picture cast a gloom over the entire party, making them restless and anxious.

      “It can’t happen for some time,” said the Tin Woodman, trying to speak cheerfully; “for we shall be able to keep Jinjur out of the palace until she manages to break down the doors.”

      “And in the meantime I am liable to starve to death, and so is the WoggleBug,” announced Tip.

      “As for me,” said the WoggleBug, “I think that I could live for some time on Jack Pumpkinhead. Not that I prefer pumpkins for food; but I believe they are somewhat nutritious, and Jack’s head is large and plump.”

      “How heartless!” exclaimed the Tin Woodman, greatly shocked. “Are we cannibals, let me ask? Or are we faithful friends?”

      “I see very clearly that we cannot stay shut up in this palace,” said the Scarecrow, with decision. “So let us end this mournful talk and try to discover a means to escape.”

      At this suggestion they all gathered eagerly around the throne, wherein was seated the Scarecrow, and as Tip sat down upon a stool there fell from his pocket a pepperbox, which rolled upon the floor.

      “What is this?” asked Nick Chopper, picking up the box.

      “Be careful!” cried the boy. “That’s my Powder of Life. Don’t spill it, for it is nearly gone.”

      “And what is the Powder of Life?” enquired the Scarecrow, as Tip replaced the box carefully in his pocket.

      “It’s some magical stuff old Mombi got from a crooked sorcerer,” explained the boy. “She brought Jack to life with it, and afterward I used it to bring the SawHorse to life. I guess it will make anything live that is sprinkled with it; but there’s only about one dose left.”

      “Then it is very precious,” said the Tin Woodman.

      “Indeed it is,” agreed the Scarecrow. “It may prove our best means of escape from our difficulties. I believe I will think for a few minutes; so I will thank you, friend Tip, to get out your knife and rip this heavy crown from my forehead.”

      Tip soon cut the stitches that had fastened the crown to the Scarecrow’s head, and the former monarch of the Emerald City removed it with a sigh of relief and hung it on a peg beside the throne.

      “That is my last memento of royalty” said he; “and I’m glad to get rid of it. The former King of this City, who was named Pastoria, lost the crown to the Wonderful Wizard, who passed it on to me. Now the girl Jinjur claims it, and I sincerely hope it will not give her a headache.”

      “A kindly thought, which I greatly admire,” said the Tin Woodman, nodding approvingly.

      “And now I will indulge in a quiet think,” continued the Scarecrow, lying back in the throne.

      The others remained as silent and still as possible, so as not to disturb him; for all had great confidence in the extraordinary brains of the Scarecrow.

      And, after what seemed a very long time indeed to the anxious watchers, the thinker sat up, looked upon his friends with his most whimsical expression, and said:

      “My brains work beautifully today. I’m quite proud of them. Now, listen! If we attempt to escape through the doors of the palace we shall surely be captured. And, as we can’t escape through the ground, there is only one other thing to be done.

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