CHAPTER 8
Strange Happenings in Perhaps City

On the same bright morning that Grampa and Tatters started from Ragbad, the Peer of Perhaps City sat cozily breakfasting with Percy Vere. Percy was a poet and attended to all the guess work in Perhaps City. True he was a terribly forgetful poet, but he did the best he could and was a prime favorite with the old mountain monarch. Perhaps City itself is a tall, towered city of gold set high in the Maybe Mountains of Oz. So steep and craggy are its peaks that none of the dwellers in the city ever descend into the valleys below. Indeed there is little need of it, for life in Perhaps City, owing to the jolly nature and good management of old Peer Haps, is so delightfully entertaining that the people have no desire to leave. The Happsies themselves are of the light-hearted and old-fashioned race of Winkies, who in olden Oz times, settled all the countries of the East. The only one who ever left the city at all was Abrog, the High Sky prophet of the realm, and to his goings and comings no one paid much attention, for he was a queer, silent old man, who spoke but once a year and only then to prophesy as to the weather, crops and important events that would take place in the town.

So far these events had all been happy and fortunate ones, and on this sunshiny morning, old Peer Haps, buttering his muffins in his cozy breakfast room, felt so well pleased and content with his lot that he fairly beamed upon Percy Vere.

For his part, Percy Vere always was happy and, beaming back at the king, he shook his long locks out of his eye and laughed merrily at old Peer. Percy Vere always felt that his patron enjoyed his breakfast particularly if Percy opened the proceedings with a verse, so he sang, as breakfast was served, this ditty:

The poet’s merry blue eyes grew round and puzzled, as they always did when he forgot a word.

Fellow! chuckled the Peer, taking a sip of coffee. Percy, my child, you are ridiculish!

Poet! spluttered Peer Haps, with another chuckle.

Thanks old Nutmeg! sighed Percy, helping himself to another muffin. You always know what I mean.

Nut Meg! roared Peer Haps. He never got over being amused at Percy’s informal way of addressing him. Nut Meg! Well, I’ll be grated! And immediately he was, for at that very moment, the folding doors flew open and in rushed Abrog the prophet.

Greater than all other Rulers in Oz, great of the greatest! began the old man, salaaming before Peer Haps, a great misfortune threatens, approaches, is about to take place.

What? cried the Peer, choking on the last bit of his muffin. It was strange enough to have Abrog speak at all when it was not the day for prophecy, but to have him speak in this foreboding fashion was simply too terrible.

Speak out! Speak up! cried the Forgetful Poet, leaping to his feet:

Suspense, finished Peer Haps automatically. Yes, speak up, fellow! he cried anxiously.

In four days, a monster will marry the Princess! wailed Abrog, pulling his peaked cap down over his eyes. In four days, four days, four days! And having said this, he began to gallop ’round the breakfast table, Peer Haps and the Forgetful Poet right after him. You, yourself, can imagine the effect of such a message on the merry old Peer of Perhaps City. Why, he prized the little Princess above all his possessions, yes, even above his yellow hen who was a brick layer and laid gold bricks instead of eggs. Indeed, she had done more than anyone else to lay the foundation of his fortune.

What kind of a m-monster? stuttered the Forgetful Poet, waving his muffin.

Where is my daughter now? demanded Peer Haps, seizing Abrog by the whiskers, for there seemed no other way of stopping him. Abrog waved feebly toward the window and, rushing across the room, the Peer and the poet stared out into the garden where the sweetest little Princess in all the countries of the East was gathering roses. She waved gaily to the two in the window, and, with a shudder, Peer Haps turned back to Abrog.

Let me see the prophecy, he demanded, holding out his hand. Abrog produced a crumpled parchment and after one glance the old Peer covered his face and sank groaning into his enormous arm chair. The Forgetful Poet had read over his shoulder and instantly burst into all the melancholy poems he knew. Oh, hush! begged the old monarch at last, and you, he waved wildly at the prophet, can you do nothing but run ’round that table like a merry-go-round goat?

I could marry the Princess myself, rasped Abrog, coming to a sudden standstill before the Peer. If she were already married to me, a monster could not marry her, he leered triumphantly.

To you! shrieked Percy Vere, crushing his muffin to a pulp.

Percy began hopping about on one foot groaning, What’s the word, what’s the word?

Once! finished Peer Haps, mopping his forehead and glaring at Abrog, for he was stunned at the old man’s suggestion. It wouldn’t do at all, he muttered gloomily. Why, you’re a thousand years old if you’re a day, and she’s the only daughter I’ve got.

Well, you won’t have her long, sneered Abrog, gathering his robe about him. His black eyes gleamed wickedly from beneath their bushy brows. He was furiously angry, but quickly hiding his feelings he began to move slowly toward the door. Halfway there he paused. Since you refuse my first solution of the difficulty, I will endeavor to think of another one. I used to know a little magic, he wheezed craftily. I will retire to my tower to think.

Peer Haps nodded absently. He was too dazed to think himself and could only mutter over and over, A monster! A monster! My daughter! A monster!

The fellow’s a fool! choked Percy Vere. He’s as full of ideas as a dish pan. Why he’s a monster himself!

But there’s something in what he says, groaned the old Peer unhappily. If my daughter were already married when this monster came, he could not carry her off. I have it! Percy, we’ll marry the Princess at once, to the likeliest lad in Perhaps City.

To me! cried the Forgetful Poet, tossing back his long locks and sticking out his chest complacently.

Well—er, the old monarch looked a trifle embarrassed, you’re hardly the man to marry and settle down to a humdrum royal existence. I was thinking of young Perix.

You’re right, agreed Percy, mollified at once. Marriage would interfere with my career, O Peer. Shall I fetch our pretty little Princess?

Yes, call her at once, begged Peer Haps, clasping and unclasping his hands, but don’t frighten her, Percy my boy, no talk of marriage or monsters! Percy felt that the only thing he could do, under the circumstances, was to lapse into verse.

caroled the Forgetful Poet, bounding through the door into the garden. Peer Haps smiled faintly, then remembering the monster, frowned and began drumming nervously on the arm of his chair. He did not even look up when the yellow hen hopped into the room, and, with a self-conscious cluck, laid a gold brick on the mantel.