"A king!" marvelled Dorothy, who had met a great many monarchs in Oz. "But what is he doing here? And why?"
Holding her breath, she leaned over and touched the quiet figure. Then, taking her courage in both hands, she seized him by the arms and dragged him out of the brook. He came so suddenly and unexpectedly that Dorothy fell over backwards. More mystified than ever, she picked herself up.
"Mercy!" stuttered the little girl, turning him over gingerly. "He's not alive at all; he's stuffed. Why he's only a dummy."
Half relieved and half disappointed, she gazed into the bland face of the fallen king. It was a handsomely painted face, which even the brook mud could not entirely spoil, and it was topped by a splendid silver wig. But what on earth did it all mean? If Dorothy had been in Oz she might have found it more understandable, for strange things are always happening in Oz. But in America! Dorothy could not puzzle it out. Sitting down on a fallen tree she stared at the dummy in perfect astonishment. How had she come here herself? How was she to get back to the Emerald City? Who were the wild green riders, and why had they flung the dummy over the cliff?
"I wish," sighed Dorothy at last, looking pensively at the long green figure stretched so solemnly at her feet, "I wish you were alive and then maybe—"
"Maybe what?" wheezed the dummy, raising his head about an inch and blinking at her curiously. "Say, who pulled me out of the brook?"
Dorothy gave a little scream and then, recovering herself and swallowing hard, answered breathlessly, "I did!"