The last dragon
cried, trembling so that his boney knees knocked together with a noise
like drum sticks. “He wants me to put him to bed.”
“Put an old man to bed? Can’t he do that himself?” asked Peter with
disgust.
“Oh, yes, but he’s too lazy to put his own nightcap on and heat his own
hot-water bottle.”
“Riggy! Where are you?” screamed the voice of Mig. “Come here, you
scamp, or I’ll tweak your nose and box your ears!”
“Oh, dear me,” cried the poor lad in distress, as he started to run
toward the scarlet tent, “here I’ve got to go and nothing’s been
settled, and the heart of the princess is still breaking. Can you stay
here until evening, Sir Knight? The fair will be over then and we’ll be
moving on--Maybe--”
“Yes, I can stay here until evening,” said Peter. “I’ll just sit and
think and maybe I’ll have an idea by that time. Will you meet me here?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Riggy, and then as Mig called a third time he
answered, “A-comin’, sir--a-comin’,” and he ran away, ducking under the
sky-blue canvas.
There was a little tree with white berries on it like mistletoe
berries, close to a striped tent, and the sun being warm, Peter
crawled under it and lay still, thinking and thinking and thinking.
This was indeed the strangest thing that could ever happen to him.
Peter couldn’t believe it. To have rolled off the dragon’s back and to
have stumbled upon the very same princess while the others were rushing
way, way off into Ireland to find her!
And Dallahan was right here also--poor old Dallahan, all cramped up in
a box that was at least twenty times too small for him. In there so
tight that Riggy said he would leap out like a spring if ever the box
was opened.
Peter continued to stare up into the branches of the little tree,
his vizor thrown back, and a plump bird in a new coat of brown and
red came and hopped above him and looked down with sharp, beady
eyes, and chirped something that sounded like, “Hello, how are you,
doodle-de-do?” but when Peter replied that he was very well but was
thinking deeply, the bird shook all his feathers and flew away. Then
there was silence and Peter thought and thought and thought until
his little brain had pains in it like a toothache. Oh, he thought of
so many, many ways he might rescue the princess, but every way had
something wrong with it because Mig was a magician, and magicians are
usually clever enough to grapple with any scheme. And as Peter thought
and thought and thought, the red, red sun went down.
CHAPTER XIV
PETER AND MIG, THE MAGICIAN
“Oh, there you are,” said Riggy. “I was afraid you had decided not to
wait.”
“No, I’m still here,” said Peter, jumping up, “but I haven’t thought of
a way yet, have you?”
“No,” replied Riggy, pulling a very long and sad face, “but now I’ve
got _my_ own troubles.”
“What’s happened?” asked Peter.
“Mig became very angry with me because I didn’t notice and put his
nightcap on wrong side out, and then I got so nervous that I put ice in
his hot-water bottle instead of hot water, so after tweaking my nose
and boxing my ears he--he sent me away.”
“You mean he doesn’t want you to work for him any more?”
“Yes--I’m discharged,” and Riggy hung his yellow head.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Peter.
“You don’t have to be,” Riggy returned. “I’ve been very unhappy with
Mig, so I don’t care, except I’d like to help you free the princess.”
And now an idea popped into Peter’s head, an idea that fairly lifted
him off his feet. “Riggy,” cried Peter, “I’m going to take your place.”
“What?” said Riggy, perfectly astonished.
“Mig needs a helper, doesn’t he?”
“He can’t get along without one,” said Riggy. “When he wakes up he’ll
be very angry with himself for sending me away.”
“All right--you can have my armor.”
“What?” cried Riggy, eyes popping.
“You can have my armor,” repeated Peter.
“Oh, _can_ I?” said Riggy, his blue eyes dancing, “Oh, can I, really?”
“Yes, because I don’t want Mig to know I’m the same boy who paid a gold
ducat to see the princess,” said Peter, taking off his helmet.
Riggy grinned and wrinkled his nose. “I see,--you’re going to fool him,
is that it?”
“I’m going to try to fool him, but you can’t have my sword,” Peter
said, as Riggy reached for it.
With Riggy’s help, Peter was soon out of his armor and stood beneath
the tree in his white night gown. “Now, give me your clothes,” he said,
and Riggy did so, gladly. They far from fitted Peter, the patched and
yellow doublet and hose, and Riggy had a hard time getting into Peter’s
armor, but finally both boys were dressed again and Riggy strutted
about as proud as old Punch himself. “I’m going right off, this minute,
and do a noble deed,” he shouted. “All my life I’ve wanted to do a
noble deed.”
“Well, there’s lots of them to be done around here,” said Peter, “but
you better find yourself a sword first.”
“I’m going to, right straight off,” chortled Riggy. “I know a
sword-maker who’ll make me a beautiful one.”
“Here’s a golden ducat, maybe he’ll want some pay,” said Peter, giving
him one of the coins he had received for dancing in the square.
“Oh, thanks, Sir Knight,” Riggy said, blinking back tears. “Don’t you
want me to stay and help you? Mig is a terrible little man.”
“No. You go along and do a noble deed,” Peter replied. “I think I can
get on very well by myself.”
“Well, then be careful,” Riggy warned, and after shaking hands with
Peter and wishing him all sorts of good luck and thanking him again and
again, the funny fellow ran away to find the shop of the sword-maker,
and Peter walked up the little street to the tent of Mig the magician.
There was a sign on the tent which said, “Keep out--Mig is asleep,”
but Peter paid no attention to it and walked in. There was the wicked
little Mig sound asleep under a yellow blanket, his head, in a blue
nightcap with a red tassel, resting on a hot-water bottle. His
whiskers, in two braids, were outside of the covers, and his tiny eyes
were tightly shut and his mouth was open. He was sleeping on top of the
two big boxes with the gold locks, but Peter could not tell, for the
life of him, which box contained the princess and which box contained
poor Dallahan, they looked so much alike.
As he stood waiting for Mig to wake up, he heard a low groan come from
one of the boxes and then a sweet, high voice singing a sad little
ballad.
Oh, the princess is lost in the deep, deep, wood,
Oh, sigh and sigh again;
For she wandered where she never should,
Oh, sigh and sigh once more.
Oh, the princess will die when the snow comes down,
Oh, sigh and sigh again;
For she’ll be cold in her summer gown,
Oh, sigh and sigh once more.
And as the song finished, the little magician woke up and called
loudly, “Riggy! Riggy, come here or I’ll box your ears and tweak your
nose!” And then he remembered what he had done and said, “Oh, Dingle
Berry Pie, what a fool am I! If I didn’t send that stupid boy away! Now
what am I going to do?”
Peter stepped up and said, hiding his sword behind his back, “I’m at
your service, sir.”
Mig stared, his whiskers standing out straight with surprise, “Who--who
are you?” he demanded.
“I--I was standing close by when you told Riggy to go and--and so I
thought--”
“You thought you’d like his place, did you?” said Mig, taking the very
words out of Peter’s mouth. “What’s your name?”
“R-Robin,” said Peter, surprised at himself for saying that. He must
have been thinking of that bird, the one in the new brown and red coat
that said hello to him when he lay under the white berry tree.
“Robin what?”
“Just plain Robin.”
“Humph!” said the magician, and then he walked up and down in his night
gown. “Haven’t you a family?”
“N-not here, sir.”
“Where are they?”
“Oh, way, way ahead, sir.”
“How far ahead?”
“As far ahead as you can go from here.”
“Well, that’s all right. They won’t bother then. Can you tell the
difference between a camel and another camel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How?”
“Well, some camels have one hump and some have two, if that’s what you
mean.”
The magician paused and looked Peter up and down. “I don’t,” he said,
“but I get the point. I’ll hire you. Now, fetch me my clothes and I’ll
dress myself, with your help, because it’s time for us to be going.”
Peter fetched him his doublet and hose and his moldy green cloak and
his red pointed shoes.
After he was dressed, Mig said, “We’re going on to Giggletown from
here. Lots of wee children live in Giggletown and they’ll pay gold
moneys to see a princess with silver toes. Ahhh”--And he rubbed his
hands together again with their sandpapery sound.
“How far is Giggletown?” Peter asked.
“Oh, just over the hills and faraway,” Mig replied, vaguely. “Don’t ask
foolish questions. Now, get busy. The moon will be up before we can
count ten.”
Peter never worked harder in his life. He took down the scarlet
tent and rolled it up, poles and all, and when that was done, there
appeared from out of nowhere a blue cart with red wheels drawn by a
milk-white donkey with a pair of very, very long pink ears and the most
disgusted expression.
“Load her up,” ordered Mig, but Peter could not manage the boxes by
himself, so Mig helped him, and also assisted with the round sacks that
were very heavy and clinked with the clink of gold.
After everything was on the cart, Mig climbed up to the front seat and
took the reins in his hands and clucked, clucked with his tongue to the
disgusted white donkey.
“Jump on the back,” screamed Mig to Peter, “or I’ll tweak your nose
and box your ears,” so Peter scrambled up among the boxes and sacks of
gold, and the donkey started off, still looking disgusted. And up came
the moon, looking like a round gold ducat itself, and bats began to
fly.
CHAPTER XV
ON TOWARD GIGGLETOWN
That journey toward Giggletown seemed endless and the night seemed
endless too. They were always going up hill, it seemed, and never going
down, so finally Peter judged they must be up very high among the cloud
castles by this time. The stars seemed to become larger and larger and
the moon did, too, until it seemed to fill the whole sky, and Peter
could see the man in the moon looking at him with round, round eyes.
And the velvet bats became so bold and big that they flew right down to
the cart and made faces at Peter and squealed like mice. The rows of
trees along the road looked like old men and old women with thousands
of black arms reaching out to catch on to things, and one old elm
tickled Peter’s cheek.
At last, when it certainly should have been close to morning, Peter
heard Mig snoring on the front seat. The little magician’s head was
slumped forward between his humped shoulders and bobbed around like
a cork on top of water. But the white donkey kept on climbing and
climbing, still with the disgusted expression. And then, Peter heard a
tapping by his right hand and a little voice, seeming to come from the
top box, said, “Let me out! Let me out! Oh, please, let me out!”
“It must be the princess,” thought Peter, putting his ear down close
to the box. “Is that you, Princess?” he called, and the tiny voice
replied, “Yes, yes, let me out! Let me out! Oh, please, let me out!”
“Yes, Princess,” whispered Peter, “I’ll let you out! Shh!”
He looked ahead at Mig still snoring and then he looked back. They were
still climbing, up and up, and behind them dropped the steep road,
down, down, down. “It’s just like the slide on Red Hill where we coast
in winter,” thought Peter, and then the idea came to him. Yes, you’ve
guessed it! That’s just what he was going to do!
He climbed on the top box, straddled it; then lay flat on it as you’d
lie on a sled and gave it a shove. The box groaned a little, moved