Yankee in Oz Read online

  Yankee in Oz

  by

  Ruth Plumly Thompson

  eText version 1.1

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  Chapter 1 The Big Parade

  Chapter 2 Yankee and Tompy Arrive in Wackajammy

  Chapter 3 In the Yellow Castle

  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 The Land of Lanterns

  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 the Palace of Ozma of Oz

  Chapter 17 Badmannah's Treasure Cave

  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 of Pennwood, 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.

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  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.