L. Frank Baum - Oz 39 - Yankee In Oz

Yankee in Oz – Oz 39

L. Frank Baum

by

Ruth Plumly Thompson

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Chapter 1 The Big Parade

Chapter 2 Yankee and Tompy Arrive in Wackajammy

Chapter 3 In theYellowCastle

Chapter 4 Escape from Wackajammy

Chapter 5 The Packaged People

Chapter 6 Max, the Mix-Master

Chapter 7 Trip on A Trav-E-Log

Chapter 8 TheLandofLanterns

Chapter 9 A Merry Meeting on the Mountain

Chapter 10 The Red Jinn Makes His Plans

Chapter 11 Badmannah the Terrible!

Chapter 12 Badmannah Nets Another Princess

Chapter 13 The Red Jinn's Castle

Chapter 14 The Magic Chest

Chapter 15 Yankee to the Rescue

Chapter 16 In thePalaceofOzmaof Oz

Chapter 17 Badmannah'sTreasureCave

Chapter 18 Aunt Dofffs Victory Banquet

Chapter 19 The Travelers Return

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Chapter 1: The Big Parade

THINK it will rain?" Pushing back his breakfast plate, Tompy darted over to the window to

look anxiously up at the sky.

"No sign of it so far," said his mother, "though it does feel a bit thunderish and hot.

Whew--more like the Fourth of July than Labor Day."

"Oh, who minds a little burn," grinned Tompy. With a complacent sideway glance in the buffet

mirror, he pulled down the jacket of his blue band uniform, then, swinging his precious snare drum over

the right shoulder, he picked up his sticks, clapped on his visored cap, and one-twoed it smartly to the

door.

"Wait. Your gloves!" cried Mrs. Terry, snatching them from a chair and hurrying after him.

"Gee, Mom, thanks!" Grabbing the gloves, Tompy broke into a run. "Remember now," he

called back over his shoulder, "you be at Center and Pine by ten sharp. That's where we're really going

to give it the big blast off. Bye, see you." Casting dignity and marching form to the winds, the

eleven-year-old drummer of Pennwood Prep raced off to join the line-up for the big parade.

Not many boys Tompy's age had his sense of rhythm and musicianship and though he played

several instruments, drums were his greatest joy and hobby. He had a set at home, complete with ride

cymbals, high hat, tom-tom, snare, floor snare, and bass drums. The band outfit also was of the best, and

so clever was Tompy with sticks, brush, and pedal that he had won countless prizes on television

programs and interschool contests. For marching, Tompy used his faithful snare and there was no chance

of the fellows losing a beat with Tompy setting the pace. Besides being a whiz on drums, Tompy was an

outstanding sprinter, a handy fellow to count on during hockey and football seasons, and so lively and

likeable that the boys had promptly shortened the Thomas P. Terry to "Tompy."

In the friendly town ofPennwood, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and Labor Day parades

were grand and memorable occasions. Everybody took part or turned out to cheer, chatter, and hugely

enjoy themseEves. Nothing, not even a cloudburst, would have kept Mrs. Terry from her appointed

place in the line of march on this sultry September morning. Early though it was, crowds already

bordered the tree-lined avenues and from all directions the marchers and motorized units were

assembling. Excited little boys on wheels, streamers floating from handlebars, rode furiously in all

directions. Dogs of every shape and pedigree pranced after their owners or dangerously trotted back and

forth over the highway. The Pennwood Band was placed about dead center, between the Boy Scouts

and Red Cross mobile unit and marchers. Up ahead were the Police Color Guard and cruising cars, the

township officers in flag-bedecked motors, then a company of Army engineers, and the veterans, each

post with a splendid turnout and band. Sandwiched between were the Cub and Girl Scouts, the

Pennwood Riding Club, the telephone float with its dependable Pole Cat truck, and, last of all, the fire

companies of Pennwood and the surrounding counties. Polished to the ninety-nines were the chemical

trucks, the hook-and-ladders, and the high-pressure fog fighting units--a long array of modern fire fighting

equipment with their sirens adding to the excitement and fun.

Joking with the band boys, saluting passing pals with raised drum stick, Tompy impatiently

marked time as he waited for the outfits up front to start moving. It seemed a week of Sundays before

the good old go ahead signal sounded. Then with a HUP hup HO they were off, flags fluttering, brasses

blaring, and Tompy giving out with the long rolls and tarrididdles that had made him famous. Wild

enthusiasm greeted the marchers. The precision stepping of the Scouts deservedly drew long cheers; the

SaEvation Army unit and the engineers came in for a goodly share, too. But for Tompy and the

Pennwood Band stepping along smartly to the strains of The Stars and Stripes Forever, the townspeople

really let go with shouts, whistles, and resounding applause. Tompy's ears turned red with pleasure, but

keeping his mind strictly on his plain and fancy rhythms he cherished the moment they would pass Center

and Pine. There his mother, his father, his cousins, and dozens of the Terry clan would be gathered and

waiting to give them a royal shivaree.

As it turned out, Tompy never did reach Center and Pine, at least not in band formation or any

other reasonable formation at all. Halfway there, big spatters of rain began to fall and sudden fierce gusts

of wind sent leaves along the curbs swirling upward. Ominous rolls of thunder drowned out all the bands;

the sky turned green streaked with black while the wind rose to a veritable howl. The last thing Tompy

remembered was the paraders scattering in confusion far below, for now Tompy was airborne, clasping

his drum sticks and gasping for breath as Hurricane Hannah tossed him about like a football. In great

swoops he curved upward, then down, then way, WAY up, his buoyant drum accelerating the speed of

his flight across the sky. By this time he was streaking horizontally westward with such force and velocity

he could no longer think of or worry about himself or anyone at all! Hours might have been days and

days, years for all Tompy knew, and how long and how far he was blown he never did find out. He was

not even conscious of the final slant downward, nor the sudden lessening of the terrific gale that had

propelled him like a rocket across the sky. Now, it floated him lazily earthward and with a last little puff

dropped him carelessly into a clump of bayberry bushes. The slight jolt and the prickle of twigs brought

the young bandsman out of his stupor and to his senses. For a whole moment he sat perfectly still, then,

climbing groggily out of the bayberry bushes, he gave himself a shake. His first thought was for his drum.

Praise be--it had come through the flight in good shape. Changing his sticks from his right hand to his left,

Tompy flexed his fingers, which were practically paralyzed, and had his first good look around.

"A beach!" he muttered in dismay. "Bee-ruther, I have come a ways. Not an ocean, but a

lake," he figured, squinting through his lashes. "Going to be a long march home, that's for sure. Maybe I

could catch a bus!" he thought hopefully. But after peering in all directions he realized the chances for a

bus ride were pretty slim. The beach was wide, rock-strewn, and deserted. There were no houses or

roads anywhere in sight. A brisk breeze ruffled the surface of the lake, which was not blue or green but a

pleasing yellow. Reflected in its clear waters, the sky tinged the whole with an azure magic all its own.

But Tompy, standing forlornly on the strange shore, was in no mood to appreciate the scenery. Not a

boat nor sail was on the horizon. Then, just as he was about to turn away, a huge tubular container

rounded an island off shore and, borne by the tide, floated rapidly toward him.

"Crazy!" breathed Tompy, slipping out of his halter and stashing his drum and sticks on the

sand. In his excitement he made a little rush, stepping right into the water. Closer and closer rode the odd

metal craft, till a final roll of the tide lodged it between two rocks almost at his feet. The upper hatch of

the cylinder had sprung open and regarding him with joyous surprise and interest was a dog, a

one-ear-up, one-ear-down kind of dog with a wide curving mouth and roguish eye.

"Wr-rough!" bellowed the dog as Tompy splashed toward him. Straining against his harness,

he barked again.

"Wait, fellow, wait!" said Tompy, uneasily eyeing the complex fastening of the lower hatch. "I'll

get you out! A space dog! A rocket rider!" he gulped. "Now, what do I do?" Fortunately he had brought

along his scout knife and recklessly began cutting the cords and laces that held the dog in the capsule,

dodging rapturous licks on the ear and nose as best he could. As he worked feverishly on the last stout

tape, a bright label stitched on the back of the canvas coat worn by the dog caught his eye.

This is YANKEE--Air Force--Dog Astronaut

"Yankee?" breathed Tompy. "What a name--what a dog. Well, three cheers and a big bazoo!"

"Woo-ooh OOH!" yodelled Yankee in complete agreement. Then, as Tompy severed the last

restraining band, the doughty sky rider burst like a rocket from his imprisoning shell, bounded ashore,

and vanished in a white blur of speed.

Almost knocked fiat by the impact, Tompy was after him in a flash. "Yankee--YANKEE!" he

implored, racing over rocks and sand. "Come back! Come back! Oh, this is awful, awful." Wise in

recovery procedure, he realized instantly that a rocket rider should have immediate medical attention

before resuming a normal routine. Yet there was Yankee running like mad. "He'll probably kill himself,"

fumed the boy. Shading his eyes, he looked desperately in all directions, but there was no sign of the

white dog anywhere. Making his way back to the lake's edge, Tompy slung on his drum, thrust the sticks

through his belt, and sat dejectedly down on a rock to consider what to do next. Before he had reached

a single conclusion, a scatter of sand and a mighty thud announced the rocket rider's return.

"Oh, Yankee--Yankee, are you all right?" Dropping to his knees, Tompy embraced the

panting but still exuberant traveler.

"Right? Certainly, I'm all right," puffed Yankee, flinging himself full-length on the sand. "Just

had to stretch the legs--just--" Abruptly breaking off in the middle of a sentence, the space dog rolled

over and sat up. With round eyes, boy and dog regarded each other.

"You're not barking; you're talking," stuttered Tompy leaning forward. "But how could

you--how can you?"

"But I AM!" squealed Yankee kicking up a shower of sand. "Now, let's not worry over things

we do not understand," he continued more calmly. "I am talking. There it is. Do you mind?"

"Mind? I should say not!" Tompy told him breathlessly. "Why, it's great, it's grand! Now you

can tell me all about your flight and maybe together we can figure out a way to get home. BOY! Am I

ever lucky!"

"We're both lucky," panted Yankee. "Just think, here I am talking like a trouper. By George,

wait till I get back to the base. I'll give the boys the shock of their lives. Here I've had to get on with

barks, growls, and tail wags all my life, and though I can understand people, people are pretty dumb and

slow about understanding dogs. Why, this is ma-luff-maliff-teruff-terrif, Grrr ough ough ough! Just

wanted to see whether I still can bark, " he finished apologetically. Then, snatching a drum stick from

Tompy's belt, he tossed it high in the air, caught it neatly, and dropped it at Tompy's feet.

"Oh, please, not my drum stick!" begged Tompy retrieving the stick and clutching it tight

against his chest. "These are special ones, you know."

"I know, I know," drawled the space dog. "We have bands at the base, boy, and how I love

those drums. But I must say this is all highly irregular and off schedule. Just the simple matter of going into

orbit, dropping down off an island, being scooped up by the Navy, and flown back to the Cape. Instead

of which I plump down in a yellow lake, hit a rock, blow my top, and find myself on some strange planet

with a boy drummer! All very peek, if you ask me!"

"Peculiar is right," sighed Tompy, pushing back his cap. "This country does not look like our

country at all."

"Then how'd you get here?" inquired Yankee, staring intently at his fellow adventurer. "You

don't look like a planeteer to me."

"Oh, I'm not--I'm not," Tompy assured him hastily. "I'm Thomas P. Terry from Pennwood,

PennsyEvania. I was launched, too, Yank. Hurricane struck while I was marching in the Labor Day

parade and, POW-ZOWY, I blew and flew for miles and miles and finally dropped down here about ten

minutes ago."

"And a fortunate thing for me. Without your help, I might never have got out of that

confounded can." With a glance over his shoulder at the metal space capsule, Yankee moved closer to

the boy who had freed him.

"Bee-ruther!" exclaimed Tompy, throwing one arm around the dog. "Weren't you lonely up

there all by yourself? Weren't you scared?"

"Uncomfortable, perhaps," admitted Yankee, half closing his eyes at the memory of his

harrowing ride, "but not scared. Bull terriers don't scare easy, y'know. I'm not pure bull terrier," he went

on calmly, "a bit of springer spaniel is mixed in somewhere in my family which accounts for these freckled

ears and my longer legs. But mostly I am bull terrier and bull terriers are TOUGH. That is why they

chose me, I expect, and with half the Navy searching for me by this time, I'd better get back to the

Cape!"

"First we'll get you out of that jacket," decided Tompy and this he proceeded to do. Next he

unwound the wires and pulled off the adhesive sensors from the space dog's chest.

"They registered temperature, heart beat, blood pressure, and so on," explained Yankee,

wincing a bit as the last adhesive came loose. The handsome leather harness with its crossed American

flags Tompy did not remove. "Boy! What a relief!" sighed Yankee. Rolling over and over, he kicked up

his legs and wriggled joyously in the sand.

"Maybe we should save this jacket and some of the instruments in the capsule." Tompy

glanced uncertainly at the big metal container still stuck fast between two rocks.

"Why?" Yankee continued to roll luxuriously. "The fellows have already received all the flight

data by radio and have all the information they need."

"Then you did go into orbit!" gasped Tompy, eyeing the still wriggling rocket rider with

growing admiration and respect.

"How should I know?" wheezed Yankee. Rolling over, he began to bark hysterically, quite

forgetting he could talk. "What I meant to say," he added as Tompy look puzzled, "was that I was in

there long enough to orbit three or four times, If I did, well, I guess will put those bears and monkeys

back in their cages!" Racing in a mad circle around his rescuer, Yankee wound up with a leap that rolled

Tompy over backwards.

"Not unless we get home and can prove it," puffed Tompy, fending him off with one hand and

scrambling to his feet. "Do you realize that we are LOST and right in the middle of nowhere?"

"Lost!" sniffed Yankee, kicking up a cloud of sand. "You can't lose a bull terrier, boy. I'll find

the way back, never fear, and take you along with me."

"Why, Yankee, I believe you will! And, know something else? I like you; I like you a lot."

"And I like YOU!" Yankee sprang high in the air to lick Tompy on the nose. "Come on,

sonny. We're wasting time." Tompy, however, still felt uneasy about his doughty guide.

"Oh, I'm sure you should rest, and I know you should have some shots or special food."

Despairingly, he looked around the barren beach.

"Now there you go, worrying about things we can't help. I'm fine, just fine," insisted the terrier.

"I have been fed some goofy stuff through a tube and though I could go for a juicy bone--" Yankee made

a playful dash for Tompy's shin. "But that can wait. Come on, let's go, and give us a riddle-cum-jig on

that drum, Tomp. It'll scare off the natives and start us out in style. This way, boy--our course is due

east," he announced after sniffing the air delicately in all directions. And so, to the lively ratta-ta-tat of

Tompy's drum, the two travelers turned their backs on the yellow lake and set resolutely off to find their

way back home.

________________________________________________________________

Chapter 2: Yankee and Tompy Arrive in Wackajammy

AFTER a long mile's march, through heavy sand and around jagged rocks, the two

adventurers found themseEves facing a wide stretch of pleasanter countryside.

Rolling hills, fields of waving wheat, and an occasional stand of trees promised easier going

and perhaps the presence of friendly natives.

"This can't be another planet," declared Tompy, pausing to shake the sand from his loafers. "If

it were, we'd be fried and frizzled without oxygen or pressure suits."

"My guess is--we're on some lower level between the earth and outer space," reasoned

Yankee, sitting down to scratch his ear.

"You surely know a lot for a dog," marveled Tompy, regarding the terrier with wide-eyed

admiration.

"Why not?" drawled Yankee. "Dogs are just as smart as people, usually smarter. Trouble is,

people never ask dogs things; they just TELL them things, snap the fingers, whistle, shout, or talk baby

talk. And that I find disgusting!"

"I'll bet you do! Jeepers, Yanky Dank, are you ever funny!" laughed Tompy. "But after all,

people don't often have a chance to talk to dogs. Dogs don't talk where we come from, remember?"

"Oh, I remember all right," grumbled the terrier. "But if we understand people-talk, why can't

they understand us?"

"Wonder if there are any people around here, or any place where we could buy a sandwich?"

sighed Tompy. "I'm hungry as a goat and BOY, when I think of that picnic I'm missing."

"Try the grass," said Yankee. Snatching a mouthful, he chewed it up with pretended relish.

This really worried Tompy, for he had noticed that dogs at home only ate grass when they were out of

sorts.

"Let's push on. Maybe there's a farm ahead," he urged, starting off at a good pace with

Yankee loping hopefully alongside. He had stopped drumming quite a while back, as watching his footing

and keeping an eye out for friends or enemies took his whole and entire attention. Halfway through the

first small wood they had their first bit of good fortune. In a leaf-strewn clearing, arched over by a

peaked yellow roof stood a well.

"What's this?" inquired Yankee, sniffing suspiciously at the mossy stones built up around the

opening.

"A well, and that means water!" explained Tompy briefly. Seizing the crank that operated the

rusty chain he began turning it briskly. With echoing groans and creaks the bucket began to rise.

"Hurry! Hurry!" begged Yankee, dancing with impatience. "I'm thirsty enough to drink a river."

With a last hard turn, Tompy brought the brimming bucket to the top and was about to lift it down when

he noticed some printing on the side.

"Welcome Well!" announced the message. Who drinks of these waters shall be cured of all ills

and be WELL, indeed."

"Well, well and good!" chuckled Tompy, reading the friendly greeting aloud. "So what are we

waiting for?"

"You first." Yankee gulped convulsively as Tompy drew a brimming dipperful and drank it

thirstily.

"Golly day! I do feel better, not tired at all. Boy, was that ever good." Wiping his mouth on his

sleeve, Tompy lifted the bucket down for Yankee, who gulped and gulped till it was half empty. When at

last he had had his fill, Tompy's heart gave a great thump of relief. There was a new light and sparkle in

the space dog's amber eyes.

"Just what I needed, Gruff-ruff. I feel great!" exclaimed Yankee. "Boy, if I felt any better I

couldn't stand it. What kind of water was that anyway?"

"Search me," answered Tompy with a shrug, "but if that message was correct, you are now in

fine shape and have thrown off all ill effects of your rocket ride. You'll have to admit this is a funny

country, though."

Yankee made no reply, for snuffling around in the bucket, he found a round metal box. Lifting

it out with his teeth, he tossed it high in the air.

"Be careful," warned Tompy, catching it as it came down. "Could be a bomb or something."

"Probably some vitamin pills," scoffed the terrier, taking another long drink from the bucket, as

Tompy carefully examined the little box. "One to a person," directed the label on the box top.

"Well I'm not a person. I'm a dog, so give me two," Yankee grinned widely as Tompy

snapped up the lid. It was full of small envelopes. "Turn right," said the card shortly.

"But that's all wrong," objected Yankee, as Tompy read out the card. "Due east is straight

ahead. See what's on mine?"

"Turn left," ordered the second card.

"Left? I'll do nothing of the kind," snarled the terrier. Snatching the card, Yankee ground it

underfoot and then buried it for good measure. "Go different ways; not on your life. I've never had a boy

before and I aim to stick with him till we get back to the good old U.S.A. Hay! Hay!"

"I've never had a dog either," cried Tompy, tossing his card over his shoulder, "but if I did

have one, I'd want him to be exactly like you--you're the best dog a fellow could have, Yanky

Dank,know that!"

"Grrr-rr! Wuff woooOOOO!" Leaping up to lick Tompy on the ear and furiously wagging his

tail, Yankee bounded forward. "Come on, then. We'll follow my nose and stay together no matter what!"

"No matter what," repeated Tompy, hurrying after his self-appointed guide. Zig-zagging left

and right, the space dog galloped along so fast Tompy had to run to keep him in sight. "Hi--take it easy,"

he puffed, pushing through a mass of brush. Yankee already had stopped and standing on his hind legs

was staring intently at a sign nailed to a yellow pine. "Wackajammy, two ellenboggers ahead," read

Tompy. "Now, how far would that be?"

"Who cares," yipped Yankee, dropping to all fours. "Let's take a whack at it. Maybe they'll

give us something to eat. I'm hungry enough to chew bark."

"Me, too," sighed Tompy, patting his middle, "so the sooner we get there the better." Ten

minutes brought them to the edge of the woods and right to the edge of a billowing expanse of wheat that

stretched on as far as the eye could reach. Cutting through the wheat and almost as if planned for their

convenience was a yellow pebbled highway.

"Well, I must say this is more civilized," conceded Yankee, stepping gingerly out on the

pebbled pathway.

"Could be a trap," worried Tompy following him cautiously. "Suppose we run into a bevy of

natives brandishing spears?"

"Natives brandishing spears would not be raising this fine grain nor have built this neat

roadway," argued Yankee. "Doubtless they are fine people who will welcome us with open arms and a

splendid lunch. Give out with the drum, boy, so they'll know we're coming. A one--a two--a! Tap ter

rappa ta tappa ta tap!" Stiff legging it on ahead, Yankee tossed occasional comments over his shoulder.

"I am a friendly fellow, usually," observed the space dog solemnly. "So long as people are friendly, I am

friendly. If they are not, I spring sideways and knock 'em down. I show my teeth and growl. Now, my

advice to you, Tomp, is this--if you meet someone bigger than you and they start roughing it up, stick out

your foot!" Closing one eye, Yankee resumed his forward march.

"Ha ha--stick out your foot! I'll remember that. But let's try being friendly first, shall we? Golly,

this path is widening out. Take a look!"

"The reception committee," muttered the terrier, stopping short with one foot still in the air. The

pebbled pathway had indeed widened out. A vast, grassy park, surrounding a handsome yellow castle

rose like a mirage before their eyes. Drawn up before the castle an imposing array of dignitaries silently

regarded them. Clad in yellow silk jersey jackets and jeans with green leather belts, wearing green leather

gold buckled pumps they were as handsome a lot as the boy or dog had ever seen. Men and women

alike had bright yellow hair drawn back and caught on top of their heads with golden rings. The men's

hair ended in a waving brush, the women's in shining pony tails that reached far below the waist. As the

silence continued, Yankee, growing restive, barked sharply. Covering their ears, the entire company

began moving backwards.

"Oh, now you've frightened them," whispered Tompy. "Say something. Say something

quickly."

"Company HALT!" bawled Yankee in a loud but pleasant voice. To Tompy's surprise, they

did halt. Then the tallest of the group stepped forward and graciously raised his scepter, a long, long loaf

of bread. As the gold ring holding back his hair was wider than the others and studded with jewels,

Tompy immediately decided that this was the top man. His first words proved that he was right.

"I am King Jack-a-lack of Wackajammy," announced the slender ruler with a gracious wave

of his scepter. "Welcome, boy, and--and animal," finished the king after a long, curious look at the bull

terrier.

"This is Yankee, an American Air Force dog," explained Tompy hastily, "very smart, very

friendly."

"Hi-yi! I love EVERYBODY!" yelped Yankee with an exuberant leap forward. The leap was

so unexpected and forceful it knocked the startled monarch flat. Nothing daunted, Yankee began

frantically licking his face from chin to forehead.

"But--but--nobody loves a king," sputtered Jack-a-lack, as two of his courtiers pulled him

quickly to his feet.

"Well, I do," insisted the terrier, only prevented from a second leap by the restraining hand of

Tompy on his harness.

"Now, now, I'm sure that is very nice," mumbled his Majesty with an uneasy step backward.

"We have been expecting you, you know. Hand me that scroll, Teena." With a flashing smile, the

L. Frank Baum - Oz 39 - Yankee In Oz

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