L. Frank Baum - Oz 36 Read online

  Lucky Bucky In Oz - Oz 36

  L. Frank Baum

  CHAPTER

  2 The Wooden Whale

  3 The Jones Cousins

  4 TheSchoolofDollfins

  5 The Map

  6 Over the Hump

  7 Beginning a Long Journey

  8 The Army Resigns

  9 The CWO Painters’ Project

  10 Kaliko in a Rage

  11 King Bucky

  12 Over the Rainbow

  13 Winning Their Way

  14 Tea and Thunderbugs

  15 Slippery Going

  16 In Search of a River

  17 Scarecrow Entertains

  18 The Uncles

  19 Witch Hunt

  20 TheEmeraldCityat Last

  21 LakeQuad

  CHAPTER 1

  CHUG-CHUG, Chug-chug. The engine in the tug boat sputtered monotonously.

  Lying in the warm sunshine on the upper deck of his uncle’s tug boat, Lucky Bucky looked up into the sky.

  Somewhere inside the boat the ship’s clock struck eight bells. It wastwelve o’clock.

  “Time for lunch, almost,” he thought drowsily, watching the engine strain on the long towing line that pulled three barges at a slow speed through up-perNew York Bay. The course took them close to the huge bronze figure of the Goddess of Liberty.

  The boy looked up reverently into the face of the Great Goddess. She seemed to be looking straight at him and her eyes held an expression of alarm perhaps she was about to speak… when… Bam!!! A terrific explosion … a sharp hiss of steam and Bucky shot up into the air with the speed of a rocket! Recovering from his first surprise, the boy looked down and saw, far below him, his uncle’s tug boat with a great hole in the cabin roof on the exact spot where he had been lying. He rose higher and higher in the air. The tug boat, the Great Goddess of Liberty and all the familiar landmarks grew smaller and smaller. Gradually they faded completely into the mist.

  Bucky lost all track of time as he whirled through space, wondering what in the world would happen next, where he would land-and how. He wasn’t exactly pleased with the unexpected situation in which he found himself.

  “That old boiler must have burst,” he said to himself, uneasily. “Well, I’ll just have to make the best of the bust, I guess.”

  As he soared beyond the highest clouds, he resolutely pulled his sweater close around his neck and buttoned up his coat tightly. On and on he sped.

  “Everything so far seems okay,” he muttered, “no bones broken. I guess I really am Luck.”

  From behind the last lazy cloud darted a perspiring cloud-pusher and a barrel-bird half full of star dust.

  “Ker-swisssh!” sneezed the large, round barrel-bird, as it flew close to Bucky. The boy tried to steady himself that he might get a better look at the queer thing. “Where do you think you’re going, Stranger?” enquired the inquisitive bird.

  “Maybe you can tell me, for I haven’t the slightest idea,” responded the boy as they all shot forward, side by side.

  “Bumps and blithers are ahead,” warned the barrel-bird. “You had better be careful where you go.”

  Now they were skimming over an endless pink ocean. Far beyond, rising from the ocean, Bucky noticed the top of a small, active volcano. He was heading straight toward it. He tried to check his speed but he didn’t know how to accomplish this.

  “If I were you-which I am very thankful I am not I would keep away from that volcano,” ventured the bird.

  “Don’t bother me now with silly suggestions,” replied Bucky, trying desperately to brace himself against what he judged was likely to happen. He couldn’t stop … he didn’t even have time to think or to act.

  “Here is where Lucky Bucky trusts completely to his luck,” he muttered and closed his eyes tight. Then, right up to his neck, he plunged into a soft mass of warm dough. Little bubbles of sour yeast sizzled and burst all around him. One quick glance showed Bucky that he had landed half-way up the slope of the steep volcano. From the crater spurted puffs of fragrant steam, pungent with the strong odor of cinnamon. “If I’m still alive, I can thank my lucky stars,” thought the boy as he twisted his head free from the dough.

  He gazed around, holding his breath in amazement.

  He heard a babble of squeaky voices above him: “Goodness gracious sakes!!!” exclaimed one fussy voice. “Bees, bats and buzzards! What’s this?” cried another.

  From a ridge above the dough, half a dozen flat wooden paddles poked the boy in the back. These paddles were attached to the ends of very long handles and Bucky, who had managed to pull his arms free, grabbed one of the blades with his sticky fingers. He called out:

  “You fellows be careful up there … stop poking

  me…

  A row of angry faces popped up over the upper

  ridge.

  “Leave our Doughminion immediately,” the mouths yelled madly. Again the paddles prodded the boy more savagely. In spite of all attempts to wrench the blade from his hands, Bucky held on grimly, for he was very strong. The struggle became a tug of war and the boy presently felt himself being slowly drawn up, out of the sticky mass, and dropped on the ridge. He saw immediately that a swarm of furious little cooks were pulling desperately on the other end of the paddle. They were dressed in long white coats reaching to the ground. Each one wore a high cook’s cap on his head.

  “Don’t mince matters with us!!!” screamed a fussy master-baker who was wearing an extra large hat.

  “Dump the dumpling into the ocean! He’s too dumb to be put into a lamb stew!”

  As the cooks became noisier, the whole volcano became excited until, at the mention of lamb stew, a stream of potatoes, onions and carrots shot out of the crater. Cries went up for “Parsnips… Carrots.. Pumpkins and Peanuts . Cabbage and Cake. Mush and Molasses…” And, sure enough, with each order screamed, up from the crater came more and more vegetables for the stew, followed at last by a large mess of mush and molasses that doused over the spotless white aprons of the cooks and made the narrow ridge slippery and dangerous.

  Bucky managed to wrench the paddle from the loosened grasp of the bakers, and with it, he poked back at them and chased them half way around the mountain ledge where they vanished from his sight.

  Coming suddenly upon a row of ovens, Bucky opened one. Inside the volcanic oven were fragrant pies just turning to a golden brown. Everything about them looked delicious. Sliding his paddle inside, as he had once seen a baker slip his peel, Bucky gently drew out a couple of the pies. His action threw the little cooks

  into a loud cry of protest. Defiantly they swung their long scoops and again ordered him to leave their Doughmain.

  “What in the mischief ails you fellows?” cried the boy, setting his pies on the ground and swinging his scoop as several determined bakers prepared to attack him. He wasn’t going to be pushed back into that dough without a struggle. He dropped the paddle and stood facing the cooks, a sizzling hot pie in either hand. The bakers stopped… whispered together, and waited. .

  Bucky took time out to eat one of the pies. But before he had finished it, the bakers were consulting again in whispers. He watched them from the corner of his eye.

  In a flash they charged again, swinging their paddles dangerously close to his head. With his own weapon he fought back against his assailants, tumbling many of them into the soft dough below.

  Though he fought valiantly, the bakers gained ground; step by step, they crowded closer. By sheer force of numbers they surrounded him. The crack, crack of the scoops clashing together could be heard far out over the ocean. Bucky received many smart wallops that made him see stars. The outcome of the fight began to look dark for the boy as the Scrimmage

 
; rose to its climax.

  Suddenly, without warning, the tide of battle turned the racket ceased. A piercing call of alarm rang out. “The Pie Rats!!! The Whale!!! Our Doughmain’s in peril!!!!”

  All eyes were turned toward the sea. Close to shore the great head of a huge wooden whale came slowly up out of the pink ocean. From beneath the whale’s gill a small trap-door flew open, and a gang of rough, weather-beaten pirates scramhled out. They swarmed over the beach and began to climb the steep sides of the volcano, all the while brandishing their long cutlasses and huge pistols.

  In their excitement and dread of the pirates, the bakers entirely forgot Bucky, who stood looking on with amazement. The bakers scurried to a higher place on the mountain ridge. Here piles of hard biscuits were stacked like cannon balls.

  Each little biscuit shooter took a biscuit on his scoop and expertly sent it whistling down on the head of an invader. Every shot was so well aimed that it found its mark.

  Crack! Crack! Smack! went the biscuits accompanied by a chorus of little squeals. A constant stream fell on the enemy. Hundreds of hard, dry, slightly

  burned biscuits hummed through the air that day and, as the invaders continued the assault, so the biscuit shooters increased the bombardment.

  The siege was beginning to fail and the pirates to waver, without the capture of even a single cruller, when suddenly, as though to end the attack, the crater of the volcano belched forth a cloud of black pepper. Sneezing and coughing, the invaders turned in utter confusion and fled back toward the whale.

  With dignity, the whale slipped away from the shore and swam out just beyond the reach of the pirates. There, floating calmly on the serene pink ocean, the whale paid not the slightest attention to the pleadings of the crew he had so quietly left to meet their fate. Majestically swishing his tail, the whale moved slowly beyond range of any stray biscuits that might pop from above.

  From his high position, Bucky had a splendid view of the beach, the pirates and the whale. The fun was over almost as soon as it had begun. Now the pirates were trying wildly to escape, with no retreat left them.

  Pies gone—hope gone, and whale gone, the Pie Rats threw down their cutlasses and pistols. They hoisted a white flag in surrender.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Wooden Whale

  THE volcanic biscuit shooters slid closer to a lower ledge, keeping the fierce pirates at a safe distance with the aid of their long paddles.

  “Surrender your weapons!” they demanded, “and we’ll make good doughboys of you all. But remember, no tricks…

  Bucky was thrilled with the outcome of the game and ate another peach pie to celebrate the victory. He smiled to himself as the buccaneers delivered up their weapons, preparing to turn their attention to mixing dough.

  With dexterous scoops the shooters sent cutlasses, blunderbusses and all the other weapons far out over the ocean to disappear where the water was deepest.

  “Now, hats and boots,” commanded the bakers. “Off with them quickly or overboard you’ll go.

  At this, the pirate captain scowled and refused to give up his wide-brimmed hat fringed with heavy gold. A hard biscuit peppered him, causing him to change his mind, and sullenly he handed over his treasured possession, not doing so, however, until the quick action of the paddles had tumbled him into the water. As he scrambled back to the shore, he saw his hat flung far out to sea.

  For many years the little bakers had been annoyed by the raids of these pirates; their pies and buns had been plundered. Never before had retaliation been possible. But on this eventful day, affairs had turned out differently and now the invaders must be fed; there was nothing to do but put them to work mixing their own dough. To repay the pirates for the loss of their fancy clothes, the bakers gave each man a long coat and a high hat when he went to work. At last the buccaneers were earning an honest living.

  Pleased with their easy triumph, the biscuit shooters cheered and waved their long pie pokers and Bucky, carried away with his hearty feeling of support in the contest, clapped his hands and cheered with them.

  “At-a-boy, Bakers!” he called, for the dousing of the pirate captain had filled him with so much amusement that he could not restrain his mirth: “Duck him again,” he shouted.

  He was leaning far over the edge in order to better see the proceedings, without realizing his danger. Before he could collect his thoughts, five expert biscuit shooters had planted their shooters beneath him and the snap of their paddles sent him high into the

  air over the pink ocean into which he fell with a dismal plunk. Sputtering, he rose to the surface and began to tread water.

  “I’m beginning to think this place is made up of doughnuts!” he gasped, expelling the water from his mouth, “what in blazes is the matter with those pie-kers that they don’t know a friend when they see one!”

  To his surprise, he was answered by a hollow voice that seemed to come from the water.

  “I beg your pardon,” said the voice. “I didn’t catch your last remark.”

  Bucky turned. Close beside him appeared the large, dripping head of a whale, his polished mahogany sides glistening like a mirror. Bucky started to swim away as fast as the crawl stroke would take him.

  Up again came the great wooden head, this time directly in his course. Bucky turned to the right, then to the left, the jitters getting him as he tried to dodge the monster. But, wherever he shifted, there was the great head to block his return to the volcano. It was useless to try evasion.

  The sad, hesitating voice continued to speak: “Please, now, my young friend, don’t be startled at a peaceful old fish like me— I know I’m blunt but that was the style of architecture when I was built.

  The whole face of the whale stretched in a friendly

  grin.

  Lucky Bucky extended a weary hand and caught hold of the highly polished brass deck rail that ran around the whale’s protruding lower jaw. He hauled himself out of the water and sat down on the deck-jaw to regain his breath and suddenly he recalled the story of Jonah and the Whale!

  “Before we go any further,” said the whale in a timid voice, “I’d like to ask you one question. Are you, by any means, a young pirate?”

  “I certainly am not!!”

  “That’s comforting to know,” softly whispered the whale with a sigh and a spout, “now, may I enquire about your Father? Was he a pirate?”

  Bucky stared in amazement, then shook his head so violently that drops of water from his hair spotted the spotless rail.

  “Definitely NO!”

  Some quality in the old whale gave him a feeling of confidence. “And your Grandfather and your GreatGrandfather, were they, by any chance, pirates?” the gentle quizzing continued.

  “Never!” cried the boy with plenty of spirit. “My people were all sea-captains and pilots,” he added proudly.

  “Pilots?” queried the whale, cocking his head suspiciously. “That word sounds too much like ‘pirate’ for my comfort. You’d better get off, and be quick about it.” With that, the whale began to sink below the surface.

  “Hold on a minute … let me explain,” pleaded Bucky, holding tight to the rail with both hands.

  Lower and lower settled the whale before the boy’s pleading words made him hesitate.

  “Let me tell you what a pilot really is! He’s an officer who knows all about channels and deep waters. He directs large ships and boats away from danger. Please be reasonable, and don’t accuse me again of being a pirate. It’s just too humiliating…

  “Well … “ faltered the whale as he puffed up to the surface. “I always try to be reasonable and what you say sounds reasonable; pirates are most unreasonable, don’t you think, and you don’t sound that way.”

  “Your pirates are the only ones I ever saw,” Bucky

  answered.

  “My Pirates!” roared the whale. “What do you mean now by making such an unreasonable remark?”

  “I’m sorry…” said Bueky soberly, “sorry to h
ave made such a mistake. I’m a stranger in these parts.

  I came from New York and if…”

  “Yes, yes,” drawled the whale disdainfully, pucker-mg his forehead with anxiety.

  “New York is a wonderful city,” persisted the boy,

  “with . .

  “Yes, yes, yes,” interrupted the whale. “You’ve never even noticed my wounded eye; just look at it.”

  A large mark under one eye showed Bucky where a hard biscuit had struck him and knocked off the varnish.

  “And look at those biscuit shooters,” continued the whale, “driving the pirates to work cleaning up the island and polishing the oven doors. It’s a snug little roost they have there on that volcano. Someone ought to write a song about it for me to sing.”

  “I wouldn’t like to live there,” Bucky answered, “and we have just as good pies in Chicago or Hacketts-town.”

  “Stop!” ordered the whale. “Don’t start that again and worry me with your impossible stories. As I was saying, that volcano is the finest floating bakery in all the Nonentic Ocean.”

  “You mean Atlantic Ocean, don’t you?” Bucky corrected.

  “I mean exactly what I say. Nonentic Ocean, and I cannot understand where you get such funny names

  in your head-New York, Chicago, Atlantic Ocean! There are no such places in the Land of Oz?”

  “Do you mean to tell me I am in the Land of Oz?” Bucky cried.

  “You certainly are.”

  “Then I’m lost! How can I get back home?”

  “How should I know? The way you came, I guess…”

  “In Oz!” muttered the boy, woefully. “This is terrible. Wild pirates and crazy biscuit shooters.”

  “You haven’t seen half…” suggested the whale ominously. “This ocean is filled with pirates.”

  “I always thought Oz was a wonderful and friendly land,” Bucky said in bewilderment.