The Scarecrow and His Servant, Page 3

  Then there came a loud crack!

  Jack looked up to see the Scarecrow, very angry, clouting the nearest arm of the signpost as hard as he could.

  “Take that, you insolent rogue!” he cried, and punched it again.

  Unfortunately, the first punch must have loosened something in the sign, because when he punched it for the second time, all four arms swung around, and the next one clonked the Scarecrow hard on the back of the head.

  The Scarecrow fell over, shouting, “Treachery! Cowardice!” and then bounced up at once and seized the arm that had hit him and wrenched it off the signpost altogether.

  “Take that, you dastardly footpad!” he cried, belaboring the post with the broken arm. “Fight fairly, or surrender!”

  The trouble was that every time he hit the post, it swung around again and hit him from the other side. However, he stood his ground and fought back bravely.

  “Master! Master!” called Jack, jumping up. “That's not a footpad—that's a road sign!”

  “He's in disguise,” said the Scarecrow. “Watch out—stand back—he's a footpad, all right. But don't you worry, I'll deal with him.”

  “Right you are, master. Footpad he is, if you say so. But I think he's had enough now. I'm sure I heard him say I surrender.”

  “Did you? Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely certain, master.”

  “In that case—” began the Scarecrow, but stopped and looked down in horror at his own right arm, which was slipping slowly out of the sleeve of his jacket. The rake handle had come away from the broomstick that was his spine.

  “I've been disarmed!” the Scarecrow said, shocked.

  In fact, as Jack saw, the rake handle was so dry and brittle that it had never been much use in the first place, and the punishment it had taken in the fight with the road sign had cracked it in several places.

  “I've got an idea, master,” he said. “This fellow's arm is in better condition than your old one. Why don't we slip that up your sleeve instead?”

  “What a good idea!” said the Scarecrow, cheering up at once.

  So Jack did that, and just as had happened with the stick that had become his leg, the arm gave a kind of twitch when it met his shoulder and settled into place at once.

  “My word,” said the Scarecrow, admiring his new arm, trying it out by waving it around, and practicing pointing at things with the finger on the end. “What gifts you have, Jack, my boy! You could be a surgeon. Or a carpenter, even. And as for you, you scoundrel,” he added severely to the road sign, “let that be a lesson to you.”

  “I don't suppose he'll attack anyone else, master,” said Jack. “I reckon you've sorted him out for good. Which way shall we go next?”

  “That way,” said the Scarecrow, pointing confidently along one of the roads with his new arm.

  So Jack shouldered his bag, and they set off.

  After an hour's brisk walking, they reached the edge of a town. It must have been market day, because people were making for the town with carts full of vegetables and cheeses and other things to sell. One man was a bird-catcher. His cart was piled high with cages containing little songbirds such as linnets, larks, and goldfinches. The Scarecrow was very interested.

  “Prisoners of war,” he explained to Jack. “I expect they're being sent back to their own country.”

  “I don't think so, master. I think people are going to buy them and keep them in cages so they can hear them singing.”

  “No!” exclaimed the Scarecrow. “No, no, people wouldn't do that. Why, that would be dishonorable. Take it from me, they're prisoners of war.”

  Presently they came to the marketplace, and the Scarecrow gazed around in amazement at the town hall, the church, and the market stalls.

  “I had no idea civilization had advanced to this point,” he said to Jack. “Why, this almost compares to Bella Fontana. What industry! What beauty! What splendor! You wouldn't find a place like this in the kingdom of the birds, I'm sure of that.”

  Jack could see children whispering and pointing at the Scarecrow.

  “Listen, master,” he said, “I don't think we—”

  “What's that?” said the Scarecrow eagerly.

  He was pointing at a canvas booth where a carpenter was hammering some planks together to hold up a brightly painted picture of a wild landscape.

  “That's going to be a play,” said Jack. “That's called scenery. Actors come out in front of it and act out a story.”

  The Scarecrow's eyes were open as wide as they could go. He moved toward the booth as if he were being pulled on a string. There was a big, colorful poster nearby, and a man was reading it aloud for those people who couldn't read themselves:

  “‘The Tragical History of Harlequin and Queen Dido,’” the man read out. “‘To be acted by Signor Rigatelli's Celebrated Players, late from triumphs in Paris, Venice, Madrid, and Constantinople. With Effects of Battle and Shipwreck, a Dance of the Infernal Spirits, and the Eruption of Vesuvius. Daily at noon, midafternoon, and sunset, with special evening performance complete with Pyrotechnical Extravaganza.’”

  The Scarecrow was nearly floating with excitement.

  “I want to watch it all!” he said. “Again and again!”

  “Well, it's not free, master,” Jack explained. “You have to pay. And we haven't got any money.”

  “In that case,” said the Scarecrow, “I shall have to offer my services as an actor. I say!” he called. “Signor Rigatelli!”

  A fat man wearing a dressing gown and eating a piece of salami came out from behind the scenery.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Signor Rigatelli,” began the Scarecrow, “I—”

  “Blimey,” said Signor Rigatelli to Jack, “that's good. Do some more.”

  “I'm not doing anything,” Jack said.

  “Excuse me,” said the Scarecrow, “but I—”

  “That's it! Brilliant!” said Rigatelli.

  “What?” said Jack. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ventriloquism,” said Rigatelli. “Do it again, go on.”

  “Signor Rigatelli,” said the Scarecrow once more, “my patience is not inexhaustible. I have the honor to present myself to you as an actor of modest experience but boundless genius…. What are you doing?”

  Signor Rigatelli was walking around the Scarecrow, studying him from every angle. Then he lifted up the back of the Scarecrow's jacket to see how he worked, and the Scarecrow leapt away, furious.

  “No—it's all right, master, don't get cross,” said Jack hastily. “It's just that he'd like to be an actor, you see,” he explained to Rigatelli, “and I'm his agent.”

  “I've never seen anything like it,” said the great showman. “I can't see how it works at all. Tell you what, we'll use him as a prop in the mad scene. He can stand there on the blasted heath when the queen goes barmy. Then if he looks all right, he can go on again as an infernal spirit. Can you make him dance?”

  “I'm not sure,” said Jack.

  “Well, he can follow the others. First call in ten minutes.”

  And Rigatelli crammed the rest of the salami into his mouth and went back inside his caravan.

  The Scarecrow was ecstatic.

  “A prop!” he said. “I'm going to be a prop! Do you realize, Jack, that this is the first step on the road to a glorious career? And already I'm playing a prop! He must have been very impressed.”

  “Yes,” said Jack, “probably.”

  The Scarecrow was already disappearing behind the scenery.

  “Master,” said Jack, “wait …”

  He found the Scarecrow watching with great interest as an actor, sitting in front of a mirror, put his greasepaint on.

  “Good grief!” the actor said, suddenly catching sight of the Scarecrow, and leapt out of his chair, dropping his greasepaint.

  “Good day, sir,” said the Scarecrow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am to play the part of a prop. May I trouble you for the use of you
r makeup?”

  The actor swallowed hard and looked around. Then he saw Jack.

  “Who's this?” he said.

  “This is Lord Scarecrow,” said Jack, “and Signor Rigatelli says he can take part in the mad scene. Listen, master,” he said to the Scarecrow, who was sitting down and looking with great interest at all the pots of greasepaint and powder. “You know what a prop is, don't you?”

  “It's a very important part,” said the Scarecrow, painting a pair of bright red lips on the front of his turnip.

  “Yes, but it's what they call a silent role,” said Jack. “You don't move and you don't speak.”

  “What's going on?” said the actor.

  “I'm going on!” said the Scarecrow proudly. “In the mad scene.”

  He outlined each of his eyes with black and then dabbed some red powder on his cheeks. The actor was watching, goggle-eyed.

  “That looks lovely, master,” Jack said, “but you don't want to overdo it.”

  “You think we should be subtle?”

  “For the mad scene, definitely, master.”

  “Very well. Perhaps a wig would make me look more subtle.”

  “Not that one,” said Jack, taking a big blond curly wig out of the Scarecrow's hands. “Just remember— don't move and don't speak.”

  “I'll do it all with my eyes,” said the Scarecrow, taking the wig back and settling it over his turnip.

  The actor gave him a horrified look and left.

  “I need a costume now,” said the Scarecrow. “This'll do.”

  He picked up a scarlet cloak and twirled it around his shoulders. Jack clutched his head in despair and followed the Scarecrow out behind the scenes, where the actors and the musicians and the stagehands were getting everything ready. There was a lot to look at, and Jack had to stop the Scarecrow explaining it all to him.

  “Yes, master—hush now. The audience is out there, so we all have to be quiet—”

  “There it is!” said an angry actress, and snatched the wig off the Scarecrow's head. “What are you playing at?” she said to Jack. “How dare you put my wig on that thing?”

  “I beg your pardon,” said the Scarecrow, getting to his feet and bowing very low. “I would not upset you for the world, madam, but you are already so beautiful that you need no improvement; whereas I …”

  The actress was watching with critical interest as she settled the wig on her head.

  “Not bad,” she said to Jack. “I've seen a lot worse. I can't see how you move him at all. But don't you touch my stuff again, you hear?”

  “Sorry,” said Jack.

  The actress swept away.

  “Such grace! Such beauty!” said the Scarecrow, gazing after her.

  “Yes, master, but shush!” said Jack. “Sit down. Be quiet.”

  Just then they heard a crash of cymbals and a blast on a trumpet.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” came the voice of Signor Rigatelli. “We present a performance of the doleful and piteous tragedy of Harlequin and Queen Dido, with pictorial and scenic effects never before seen, and featuring the most comical interludes ever presented on the public stage! Our performance today is sponsored by the Buffaloni Dried Meat Company, the makers of the finest salami in town, A Smile in Every Bite.”

  The Buffalonis again, thought Jack. They get into everything.

  There was a roll of drums, and the curtain went up. Jack and the Scarecrow watched wide-eyed as the play began. It wasn't much of a story, but the audience enjoyed Harlequin pretending to lose a string of sausages, and then swallowing a fly by mistake and leaping around the stage as it buzzed inside him; and then Queen Dido was abandoned by her lover, Captain Fanfarone, and ran offstage mad with grief. She was the actress in the blond wig.

  “Here! Boy!” came a loud whisper from Rigatelli. “Get him on! It's the mad scene! Stick him in the middle and get off quick.”

  The Scarecrow spread his arms wide as Jack carried him onstage.

  “I shall be the best prop there ever was!” he declared. “They'll be talking about my prop for years to come.”

  Jack put his finger to his lips and tiptoed offstage. As he did, he found himself face to face with the actress playing Queen Dido, who was about to come on again. She looked furious.

  “What's that thing doing?” she demanded.

  “He's a prop,” Jack explained.

  “If you make him move or speak, I'll skin you alive,” she said. “Manually.”

  Jack swallowed hard and nodded.

  The curtain rose, and Jack jumped, because Queen Dido gave a wild, unearthly shriek and ran past him onto the stage.

  “Oh! Ah! Woe! Misery!” she screamed, and flung herself to the ground.

  The audience watched, enthralled. So did the Scarecrow. Jack could see his eyes getting wider and following her as she groveled and shrieked and pretended to tear her hair.

  “Hey nonny nonny,” she wailed, and danced up and down blowing kisses at the air. “There's rosemary, that's for remembrance! Hey nonny nonny! O Fanfarone, thou art a villain, forsooth! It was a lover and his lass! There's a daisy for you. La, la, la!”

  Jack was very impressed. It certainly looked like great acting.

  Suddenly she sat down and began to pluck the petals out of an imaginary daisy.

  “He loves me—he loves me not—he loves me— he loves me not—oh, daisy, daisy, give me your answer, do! Oh, that my heart would boil over and put out the fires of my grief! La, la, la, Fanfarone, thou art a pretty villain!”

  Jack was watching the Scarecrow closely. He could see the poor ninny getting more and more worried, and he whispered, “Don't, master—it's not real—keep still!”

  The Scarecrow was trying, that was clear. He only moved his head very slowly to follow what Queen Dido was doing, but he did move it, and already one or two people in the audience had noticed and were nudging their neighbors to point him out.

  Queen Dido struggled to her feet, clutching her heart. Suddenly the Scarecrow noticed that she had a dagger in her hand. She had her back to him, and she couldn't see him leaning sideways to peer around at her, a look of alarm on his great knobbly face.

  “Oh! Ah! Woe! The pangs of my sorrow tear at my soul like red-hot hooks! Ahhhhhhhh …”

  She gave a long, despairing cry, beginning as high as she could squeal and descending all the way down to the lowest note she could reach. She was famous for that cry. Critics had said that it plumbed the depths of mortal anguish, that it would melt a heart of stone, that no one could hear it without feeling the tears gush from their eyes.

  This time, though, she had the feeling that the audience wasn't quite with her. Some of them were laughing, even, and what made it worse was that when she spun around to see if it was the Scarecrow they were laughing at, he instantly remembered to act and fell still, staring out as if he were nothing but a turnip on a stick.

  Queen Dido gave him a look of furious suspicion and resolved to try her famous cry again.

  “Waaahhh—aahhh—aaaahhhh …,” she wailed, wobbling and quavering all the way from a batlike squeak down to a groan like a cow with a bellyache.

  And behind her the Scarecrow found himself moving in time with her and imitating the way she wobbled her head and waved her arms and sank gradually downward. He couldn't help it—he was deeply moved. Of course, the audience thought it was hilarious, and they roared, they slapped their thighs, they clapped and whistled and cheered.

  Queen Dido was furious. And so was Signor Rigatelli. He suddenly appeared beside Jack and shoved two actors out onto the stage, saying, “Get him off! Get him off!”

  Unfortunately, the two actors were dressed as brigands, and sure enough the Scarecrow thought they were real.

  “You villains!” he cried, and leapt forward with his wooden arms held out like fists. “Your majesty, get behind me! I'll defend you!”

  And he bounced around the stage, aiming blows at the actors. Queen Dido, meanwhile, had stamped in rage and hurled her wig to the
ground before storming offstage to rage at Rigatelli.

  The audience was loving it.

  “Go it, Scarecrow!” they shouted, and, “Whack 'em, Turnip! Look behind you! Up the Scarecrow!”

  The two actors didn't know what to make of it, but they kept on chasing the Scarecrow and then having to run away when he fought back.

  Suddenly the Scarecrow stopped and pointed in horror at the blond wig on the boards in front of him.

  “You cut her head off when I wasn't looking!” he cried. “How dare you! Right, that does it. I'm really angry now!”

  And waving his wooden arms like a windmill, he leapt at the two actors and belabored them mercilessly. The audience went wild. But the actors were getting cross now, and they fought back, and then Rigatelli himself came bustling up to try and restore order.

  Jack rushed onstage as well, to try and pull the Scarecrow away before he got hurt. Unfortunately, one of the actors had gotten hold of the Scarecrow's left arm and was tugging and tugging at it while the Scarecrow was whacking him around the head; and when Jack seized the Scarecrow around the middle and tried to tug him backward, his master's left arm came away entirely, and the actor holding it fell back suddenly into Rigatelli, knocking him back into the other actor, who grabbed at the scenery to save himself; but the combined weight of the three of them was too much for the blasted heath, and it all came down with a screech of wood and a tearing of canvas, and in a moment there was nothing to be seen but a heap of painted scenery heaving and cursing, with arms and legs waving and disappearing and emerging again.

  “This way, master!” Jack said, hauling the Scarecrow off the stage. “Let's run for it!”

  “Never!” cried the Scarecrow. “I shall never surrender!”

  “It's not surrendering, master, it's beating a retreat,” said Jack, dragging him away.

  Everyone in the marketplace had heard what was going on, and they'd left their stalls to go and laugh at the actors and the collapsing theater. Among them was the bird-catcher. All his cages with their linnets and goldfinches were glittering in the sun, and the little birds were singing as loud as they could, and the Scarecrow couldn't resist.