Chapter Five

A Terrible Accident

“It will take a few minutes for this powder to

do its work,” remarked the Magician, sprinkling

the body up and down with much care.

But suddenly the Patchwork Girl threw up one

arm, which knocked the bottle of powder from the

crooked man’s hand and sent it flying across the

room. Unc Nunkie and Margolotte were so startled

that they both leaped backward and bumped

together, and Unc’s head joggled the shelf above

them and upset the bottle containing the Liquid of

Petrifaction.

The Magician uttered such a wild cry that Ojo

jumped away and the Patchwork Girl sprang after

him and clasped her stuffed arms around him in

terror. The Glass Cat snarled and hid under the

table, and so it was that when the powerful Liquid

of Petrifaction was spilled it fell only upon the

wife of the Magician and the uncle of Ojo. With

these two the charm worked promptly. They stood

motionless and stiff as marble statues, in exactly

the positions they were in when the Liquid struck

them.

Ojo pushed the Patchwork Girl away and

ran to Unc Nunkie, filled with a terrible fear

for the only friend and protector he had ever

known. When he grasped Unc’s hand it was

cold and hard. Even the long gray beard was

solid marble. The Crooked Magician was

dancing around the room in a frenzy of despair,

calling upon his wife to forgive him, to speak

to him, to come to life again!

The Patchwork Girl, quickly recovering from her

fright, now came nearer and looked from one to

another of the people with deep interest. Then she

looked at herself and laughed. Noticing the

mirror, she stood before it and examined her

extraordinary features with amazement—her button

eyes, pearl bead teeth and puffy nose. Then,

addressing her reflection in the glass, she exclaimed:

“Whee, but there’s a gaudy dame!

Makes a paint-box blush with shame.

Razzle-dazzle, fizzle-fazzle!

Howdy-do, Miss What’s-your-name?”

She bowed, and the reflection bowed. Then

she laughed again, long and merrily, and the

Glass Cat crept out from under the table and said:

“I don’t blame you for laughing at yourself.

Aren’t you horrid?”

“Horrid?” she replied. “Why, I’m thoroughly

delightful. I’m an Original, if you please, and

therefore incomparable. Of all the comic, absurd,

rare and amusing creatures the world contains, I

must be the supreme freak. Who but poor Margolotte

could have managed to invent such an unreasonable

being as I? But I’m glad—I’m awfully glad!—that

I’m just what I am, and nothing else.”

“Be quiet, will you?” cried the frantic

Magician; “be quiet and let me think! If I don’t

think I shall go mad.”

“Think ahead,” said the Patchwork Girl, seating

herself in a chair. “Think all you want to. I

don’t mind.”

“Gee! but I’m fired playing that tune,” called

the phonograph, speaking through its horn in

a brazen, scratchy voice. “If you don’t mind,

Pipt, old boy, I’ll cut it out and take a rest.”

The Magician looked gloomily at the music-machine.

“What dreadful luck!” he wailed, despondently.

“The Powder of Life must have fallen on the

phonograph.”

He went up to it and found that the gold bottle

that contained the precious powder had dropped

upon the stand and scattered its life-giving

grains over the machine. The phonograph was very

much alive, and began dancing a jig with the legs

of the table to which it was attached, and this

dance so annoyed Dr. Pipt that he kicked the thing

into a corner and pushed a bench against it, to

hold it quiet.

“You were bad enough before,” said the Magician,

resentfully; “but a live phonograph is enough to

drive every sane person in the Land of Oz stark

crazy.”

“No insults, please,” answered the phonograph in

a surly, tone. “You did it, my boy; don’t blame

me. “

“You’ve bungled everything, Dr. Pipt,” added

the Glass Cat, contemptuously.

“Except me,” said the Patchwork Girl, jumping up

to whirl merrily around the room.

“I think,” said Ojo, almost ready to cry

through grief over Unc Nunkie’s sad fate, “it

must all be my fault, in some way. I’m called

Ojo the Unlucky, you know.”

“That’s nonsense, kiddie,” retorted the

Patchwork Girl cheerfully. “No one can be unlucky

who has the intelligence to direct his own

actions. The unlucky ones are those who beg for a

chance to think, like poor Dr. Pipt here. What’s

the row about, anyway, Mr. Magic-maker?”

“The Liquid of Petrifaction has accidentally

fallen upon my dear wife and Unc Nunkie and

turned them into marble,” he sadly replied.

“Well, why don’t you sprinkle some of that

powder on them and bring them to life again?”

asked the Patchwork Girl.

The Magician gave a jump.

“Why, I hadn’t thought of that!” he joyfully

cried, and grabbed up the golden bottle, with

which he ran to Margolotte.

Said the Patchwork Girl:

“Higgledy, piggledy, dee—

What fools magicians be!

His head’s so thick

He can’t think quick,

So he takes advice from me.”

Standing upon the bench, for he was so

crooked he could not reach the top of his wife’s

head in any other way, Dr. Pipt began shaking

the bottle. But not a grain of powder came out.

He pulled off the cover, glanced within, and

then threw the bottle from him with a wail of

despair.

“Gone-gone! Every bit gone,” he cried.

“Wasted on that miserable phonograph when

it might have saved my dear wife!”

Then the Magician bowed his head on his

crooked arms and began to cry.

Ojo was sorry for him. He went up to the

sorrowful man and said softly:

“You can make more Powder of Life, Dr. Pipt.”

“Yes; but it will take me six years—six long,

weary years of stirring four kettles with both

feet and both hands,” was the agonized reply. “Six

years! while poor Margolotte stands watching me as

a marble image. “

“Can’t anything else be done?” asked the

Patchwork Girl.

The Magician shook his head. Then he seemed to

remember something and looked up.

“There is one other compound that would destroy

the magic spell of the Liquid of Petrifaction and

restore my wife and Unc Nunkie to life,” said he.

“It may be hard to find the things I need to make

this magic compound, but if they were found I

could do in an instant what will otherwise take

six long, weary years of stirring kettles with

both hands and both feet.”

“All right; let’s find the things, then,”

suggested the Patchwork Girl. “That seems a lot

more sensible than those stirring times with the

kettles.”

“That’s the idea, Scraps,” said the Glass Cat,

approvingly. “I’m glad to find you have decent

brains. Mine are exceptionally good. You can

see em work; they’re pink.”

“Scraps?” repeated the girl. “Did you call me

‘Scraps’? Is that my name?”

“I—I believe my poor wife had intended to

name you ‘Angeline,’” said the Magician.

“But I like ‘Scraps’ best,” she replied with a

laugh. “It fits me better, for my patchwork is

all scraps, and nothing else. Thank you for

naming me, Miss Cat. Have you any name of

your own?”

“I have a foolish name that Margolotte once

gave me, but which is quite undignified for

one of my importance,” answered the cat. “She

called me ‘Bungle.’”

“Yes,” sighed the Magician; “you were a sad

bungle, taken all in all. I was wrong to make

you as I did, for a more useless, conceited and

brittle thing never before existed.”

“I’m not so brittle as you think,” retorted the

cat. “I’ve been alive a good many years, for

Dr. Pipt experimented on me with the first

magic Powder of Life he ever made, and so

far I’ve never broken or cracked or chipped any

part of me.”

“You seem to have a chip on your shoulder,”

laughed the Patchwork Girl, and the cat went

to the mirror to see.

“Tell me,” pleaded Ojo, speaking to the

Crooked Magician, “what must we find to make

the compound that will save Unc Nunkie?”

“First,” was the reply, “I must have a six-leaved clover. That can only be found in the green

country around the Emerald City, and six-leaved

clovers are very scarce, even there.”

“I’ll find it for you,” promised Ojo.

“The next thing,” continued the Magician,

“is the left wing of a yellow butterfly. That

color can only be found in the yellow country

of the Winkies, West of the Emerald City.”

“I’ll find it,” declared Ojo. “Is that all?”

“Oh, no; I’ll get my Book of Recipes and see

what comes next.”

Saying this, the Magician unlocked a drawer

of his cabinet and drew out a small book covered

with blue leather. Looking through the pages

he found the recipe he wanted and said: “I

must have a gill of water from a dark well.”

“What kind of a well is that, sir?” asked the

boy.

“One where the light of day never penetrates.

The water must be put in a gold bottle and brought

to me without any light ever reaching it.

“I’ll get the water from the dark well,” said

Ojo.

“Then I must have three hairs from the tip

of a Woozy’s tail, and a drop of oil from a live

man’s body.”

Ojo looked grave at this.

“What is a Woozy, please?” he inquired.

“Some sort of an animal. I’ve never seen one,

so I can’t describe it,” replied the Magician.

“If I can find a Woozy, I’ll get the hairs from

its tail,” said Ojo. “But is there ever any oil in a

man’s body?”

The Magician looked in the book again, to make

sure.

“That’s what the recipe calls for,” he replied,

“and of course we must get everything that is

called for, or the charm won’t work. The book

doesn’t say ‘blood’; it says ‘oil,’ and there must

be oil somewhere in a live man’s body or the

book wouldn’t ask for it.”

“All right,” returned Ojo, trying not to feel

discouraged; “I’ll try to find it.”

The Magician looked at the little Munchkin

boy in a doubtful way and said:

“All this will mean a long journey for you;

perhaps several long journeys; for you must search

through several of the different countries of Oz

in order to get the things I need.”

“I know it, sir; but I must do my best to save

Unc Nunkie.”

“And also my poor wife Margolotte. If you save

one you will save the other, for both stand there

together and the same compound will restore them

both to life. Do the best you can, Ojo, and while

you are gone I shall begin the six years job of

making a new batch of the Powder of Life. Then, if

you should unluckily fail to secure any one of the

things needed, I will have lost no time. But if

you succeed you must return here as quickly as you

can, and that will save me much tiresome stirring

of four kettles with both feet and both hands.”

“I will start on my journey at once, sir,” said

the boy.

“And I will go with you,” declared the Patchwork

Girl.

“No, no!” exclaimed the Magician. “You have no

right to leave this house. You are only a servant

and have not been discharged.”

Scraps, who had been dancing up and down

the room, stopped and looked at him.

“What is a servant?” she asked.

“One who serves. A—a Sort of slave,” he

explained.

“Very well,” said the Patchwork Girl, “I’m going

to serve you and your wife by helping Ojo find the

things you need. You need a lot, you know, such as

are not easily found.”

“It is true,” sighed Dr. Pipt. “I am well aware

that Ojo has undertaken a serious task.”

Scraps laughed, and resuming her dance she said:

“Here’s a job for a boy of brains:

A drop of oil from a live man’s veins;

A six-leaved clover; three nice hairs

From a Woozy’s tail, the book declares

Are needed for the magic spell,

And water from a pitch-dark well.

The yellow wing of a butterfly

To find must Ojo also try,

And if he gets them without harm,

Doc Pipt will make the magic charm;

But if he doesn’t get ‘em, Unc

Will always stand a marble chunk.”

The Magician looked at her thoughtfully.

“Poor Margolotte must have given you some of the

quality of poesy, by mistake,” he said. “And, if

that is true, I didn’t make a very good article

when I prepared it, or else you got an overdose or

an underdose. However, I believe I shall let you

go with Ojo, for my poor wife will not need your

services until she is restored to life. Also I

think you may be able to help the boy, for your

head seems to contain some thoughts I did not

expect to find in it. But be very careful of

yourself, for you’re a souvenir of my dear

Margolotte. Try not to get ripped, or your

stuffing may fall out. One of your eyes seems

loose, and you may have to sew it on tighter. If

you talk too much you’ll wear out your scarlet

plush tongue, which ought to have been hemmed on

the edges. And remember you belong to me and must

return here as soon as your mission is

accomplished.”

“I’m going with Scraps and Ojo,” announced

the Glass Cat.

“You can’t,” said the Magician.

“Why not?”

“You’d get broken in no time, and you

couldn’t be a bit of use to the boy and the

Patchwork Girl.”

“I beg to differ with you,” returned the cat,

in a haughty tone. “Three heads are better

than two, and my pink brains are beautiful.

You can see em work.”

“Well, go along,” said the Magician, irritably.

“You’re only an annoyance, anyhow, and I’m glad to

get rid of you.”

“Thank you for nothing, then,” answered the cat,

stiffly.

Dr. Pipt took a small basket from a cupboard

and packed several things in it. Then he handed

it to Ojo.

“Here is some food and a bundle of charms,” he

said. “It is all I can give you, but I am sure you

will find friends on your journey who will assist

you in your search. Take care of the Patchwork

Girl and bring her safely back, for she ought to

prove useful to my wife. As for the Glass Cat—

properly named Bungle—if she bothers you I now

give you my permission to break her in two, for

she is not respectful and does not obey me. I made

a mistake in giving her the pink brains, you see.

Then Ojo went to Unc Nunkie and kissed the old

man’s marble face very tenderly.

“I’m going to try to save you, Unc,” he said,

just as if the marble image could hear him; and

then he shook the crooked hand of the Crooked

Magician, who was already busy hanging the four

kettles in the fireplace, and picking up his

basket left the house.

The Patchwork Girl followed him, and after

them came the Glass Cat.