THE DREADFUL NEWS FROM TICKERLEEN

Early in the morning the host closed his inn and the four travellers hastened to the railroad station by a different road from that which they had taken the day before, for the little boy was anxious not to cross the tumultuous lake again. When they got within sight of the Cuckoo Clock Station, they noticed that the train was in and that the crowd was much larger and more excited than it had been the day before. Imps were flying here and there with their date badges blowing in the breeze, and all seemed bustle and confusion.

The little boy was very much interested in examining the train which seemed to consist of little cars made from hall clocks, with a clock-work engine in front. He was just trying to determine how he should accommodate himself in one of these cars for the long ride, when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder, and looking around, he saw the host standing at his elbow.

“What is it?” asked the little boy.

“Look at the bulletin; it has been corrected. This is dreadful news! Much more serious than we supposed yesterday!” said the host.

The little boy, who had been very much engrossed in 146his examination of the curious train, turned about and walked over with the host to the spot where the crowd was standing. As soon as his eyes fell upon the bulletin, he gave a shout of joy, for the whole thing had been changed.

“Don’t faint!” said the Continental Imp, rushing up to him.

“What’s the matter now?” said Mr. Three O’clock.

“There is nothing the matter,” said the little boy, “but, ha, ha, ha! They’ve changed it just as I knew they’d have to, and you see I was right yesterday!”

“There is nothing to laugh about,” said the host.

“Have you read it?” said Mr. Three O’clock, addressing the little boy.

“No, I haven’t,” said the little fellow. “I was laughing at its being all changed. Will one of you please read it, because you can read it better, you know?”

So the good host, who was deeply concerned about this corrected information from the capitol, read the revised bulletin, which appeared as follows:

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“What does it all mean?” asked the little boy, when the host had finished reading. “I think it is sensible enough now, but just what does it mean?”

“What does it mean?” shouted the Continental Imp. “Why, it means that the old Duke of Procrastination 148is threatening the kingdom of Father Time, and that the poor King—but wait! See there!”

They all looked at the bulletin, to which the Errorgraph Imp from the Cuckoo Clock Station was adding another item.

“Father Time Not Dead,”

read the host, in a reassuring tone.

“Then the kingdom is not lost!” shouted the Continental Imp, drawing his sword.

“And I, who heard a famous whop—”

“Stop!” screamed the little boy.

“Will fight to save the country’s pop!” continued the Continental Imp.

“That is no way to speak of Father Time!” said the little boy.

“Well, if you don’t let me say whopper,” said the Continental Imp, “how can I say popper? It’s your own fault.”

“Come,” said the kindly host. “It is not a time for quarrelling. You will have to stop saying unpleasant things about General Washington if the boy doesn’t like it. Washington was the father of his country, you know, and he got the best of the—”

149“Yes, and Father Time got the best of him, didn’t he?” said Mr. Three O’clock, who was always inclined to take sides with the Continental Imp.

“Never mind that now,” said the host. “The fact that stares us in the face is that Father Time, our beloved sovereign, and the mightiest king that ever wielded a scythe or a sceptre, is threatened by Procrastination and that we, his subjects and dependents, are called upon to defend his throne!”

“I suppose,” said Mr. Three O’clock, addressing the little boy, “that you had better go home and not be mixed up in this civil war. What say you?”

But the little boy did not answer, for he was thinking. He was thinking what his mother would say if the news were brought to her that he had fallen fighting in the army of Father Time. Then he thought of how he had once heard Procrastination spoken of as a thief, and how if this wicked old rebel were to gain control, all the clocks in the world would become slow and there would be no depending on them. Then he thought of something else, and meanwhile the crowd began to move toward the waiting train.

“Come,” said the host. “You had better let your friend, Mr. Three O’clock, take you to the frontier, and you can go home on the pendulum alone. Then he can follow us to the city, for we shall all join the army, of course.”

But the little boy was silent, and they all waited. 150Suddenly he looked up, and for the first time since they had known him, there were tears in his eyes.

“I think I will go with you and help,” he said. “Maybe I can’t do much, but I can help a little. Father Time was once very good to my mother, and I want to see him and thank him and help him so that I can tell her when I go home. Do you mind if I go with you?”

“All aboard for Chymerline, Snooze, and the Royal City!” called an imp, and at this there was a great rush for the train.

“Come on,” said some.

“Hurry up,” said others.

“Step right in,” said the guard.

And in less than another minute, the little clock-work train, loaded with sturdy volunteers from good, old-fashioned Minutel, and carrying in its foremost car the little boy, the host, the Continental Imp and Mr. Three O’clock, went whizzing through the beautiful, rolling country, following in its rapid course the road which marked the aimless wanderings of the poor Wollerp, ticking steadily the while, and ringing its drowsy bell occasionally like the old hall clock in the little boy’s home.

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