The Scarecrow and His Servant

  But before either of them could pick it up and put it back, a blackbird flew down, seized the pea in his beak, and flew up and perched on a branch.

  The Scarecrow was outraged. He waved his road

  sign, he opened and shut his umbrella, and he stamped with fury.

  “You scoundrel! You thief!” he roared. “Give me my brain back!”

  The blackbird swallowed the pea and then, to Jack's astonishment, said, “Get lost. I saw it first.”

  “How dare you!” the Scarecrow shouted in reply. “I've never known such unprincipled behavior!”

  “Don't shout at me,” whined the blackbird. “You're cruel, you are. You got a horrible cruel face. I'll have the law on you if you shout at me. It's not fair.”

  In fury, the Scarecrow opened and shut his umbrella several times, but in his rage he couldn't find any words, so the things he said sounded like this:

  “Rrrowl—nnhnrrr—ngnnmmggrrnnnggg— eeee—mnmnm—bbrrr—ffff—ssss—gggrrrssschhttt!”

  The blackbird cringed, and uttering a feeble squeak, he flew away.

  Jack scratched his head.

  “I knew parrots could talk, master, but not blackbirds,” he said.

  “Oh, they all can, Jack. You should hear the insolent way they speak to me when they think nobody else can hear. I expect that young scoundrel thought you were a scarecrow, too, and he could get away with it.”

  “Well, I'm learning new things all the time,” said Jack. “Anyway, it seems to me, master, that until we find you a new brain, you'll have to try and get on without one. We managed to find you some new arms all right, remember.”

  The Scarecrow had been stamping up and down, still furious, but he stopped and looked at Jack when he heard that and calmed down at once.

  “Do you think we could find another one?” he said.

  “Can't be too hard,” said Jack. “See how you get on without it at first. You might not need one at all. Like an appendix.”

  “It's very personal, though,” said the Scarecrow doubtfully.

  “We'll find something, don't worry.”

  “Ah, Jack, my boy, employing you was the best decision I ever made! I can do without a brain, but I don't think I could do without my servant.”

  “Well, thank you, master. But I don't think I can do without food. I hope we find something to eat soon.”

  Since there was nothing to eat there, they set off along the road again. But it was a bleak and deserted sort of district; the only farms they passed were burned down, and there wasn't a single person in sight.

  “No birds,” said the Scarecrow, looking around. “It's a curious thing, Jack, but I don't like it when there aren't any birds.”

  “I don't like it when there isn't any food,” said Jack.

  “Look!” said the Scarecrow, pointing back along the road. “What's that?”

  All they could see was a cloud of dust. But there was a sound as well, and Jack recognized it at once: a regular tramp-tramp-tramp and the beats of a snare drum accompanying it. It was a regiment of soldiers.

  Chapter Eight

  The Pride of the Regiment

  Jack tugged at the Scarecrow's sleeve. “Come on, master!” he said urgently. “We'll hide till they've gone past!”

  The Scarecrow followed Jack into a clump of bushes.

  “Are we allowed to look at them?” he said.

  “Don't let them see us, master, whatever you do!” Jack begged.

  The beating of the drums and the thudding of the feet came closer and closer. The Scarecrow, excited, peered out through the leaves.

  “Jack! Look!” he whispered. “It's astonishing! They're all the same!”

  The soldiers, with their bright red coats and white trousers, their black boots and bearskin caps, their muskets all held at the same angle and their brass buckles gleaming, did all look the same. There were hundreds of them marching in step, all big and strong and well fed.

  “Magnificent!” exclaimed the Scarecrow.

  “Hush!” said Jack desperately.

  Ahead of the column of soldiers rode several officers on gray horses, prancing and trotting and curvetting; and behind came a dozen wagons drawn by fine black horses, all gleaming and beautifully groomed.

  “What style! What panache! What vigor!” said the Scarecrow.

  Jack put his hands over his ears, but the thudding of the soldiers' boots made the very earth shake. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! Like a great mechanical monster with hundreds of legs, the regiment moved past.

  When Jack dared to look, the Scarecrow was standing in the middle of the road, gazing after them with wonder and admiration.

  “Jack!” he called. “Have you ever seen anything so splendid? Tramp, tramp, tramp! And their red coats—and their shiny belts—and their helmets! Oh, that's the life for me, Jack. I'm going to be a soldier!”

  “But, master—”

  “Off we go! Tramp, tramp, tramp!”

  Swinging his arms briskly, the Scarecrow set off on his wooden legs at such a pace that Jack had to run to keep up.

  “Master, please listen to me! Don't be a soldier, I beg you!”

  “Remember what the man in the misty cart said, Jack—great fortune! Fame and glory!”

  “Yes, and trouble and danger, too—don't forget those!”

  “Danger? What is danger to a scarecrow whose heart is broken? I am indifferent to danger. Fame and glory, Jack!”

  “Danger and suffering!”

  “And I'll tell you something else,” added the Scarecrow. “The regiment is bound to have lots of food. They're such a fine-looking band of men, I'll bet they eat three times a day. If not four.”

  That did it for Jack. At the thought of food, he set off after the regiment as fast as his master, soldiers or no soldiers.

  It didn't take them long to catch up, because the soldiers had stopped for their midday meal, and the rich smell of beef stew made poor Jack's mouth water from several hundred yards away.

  The Scarecrow strode into the camp and marched up to the cook, who was dishing out stew and potatoes to the soldiers as they stood in a smart line holding out their plates.

  “I want to be a soldier,” the Scarecrow announced.

  “Get away with you, turnip face!”

  “I've got all the qualifications—”

  “Go on, scram!”

  The Scarecrow was about to lose his temper, so Jack said:

  “Excuse me, sir, but who's the officer in charge?”

  “Colonel Bombardo, over there,” said the cook, pointing with his ladle. “At least he's the commanding officer. It's the sergeant who's in charge.”

  “Oh, right,” said Jack. “I don't suppose I could have a potato?”

  “Clear off! Get out of it!”

  Nearly howling with hunger, Jack tugged at the Scarecrow's sleeve.

  “We have to speak to the officer,” he explained. “This way, master.”

  The colonel was sitting on a canvas chair, trying to read a map upside down.

  “Colonel Bombardo, sir,” said Jack, “my master Lord Scarecrow wants to join your army. He's a good fighter, and—”

  “Lord Scarecrow?” barked the colonel. “Knew your mother. Damn fine woman. Welcome, Scarecrow. Go and speak to the sergeant over there. He'll sort you out.”

  “He knew my mother!” whispered the Scarecrow, awestruck. “Even I didn't know my mother. How clever he is! What a hero!”

  The sergeant was a thin little man with a wrinkled face that looked as if it had seen everything there was to see, twice.

  “Sergeant,” said Jack, “this is Lord Scarecrow. Colonel Bombardo sent us over to join the regiment.”

  “Lord Scarecrow, eh,” he said. “Right, your lordship. Before you join the regiment, you'll have to pass an examination.”

  Jack thought: Thank goodness for that! As soon as they find out what a ninny he is, they'll send us packing. But I'd love some of that stew….

  The Scarecrow was sitting down already, wit
h a big bass drum in front of him to write on. He looked at the exam paper, took up the pencil at once, and began to cover the page with an energetic scribble.

  “What sort of questions are they?” Jack asked.

  “Ballistics, navigation, fortification, tactics, and strategy,” said the sergeant.

  “Oh, good. I don't suppose I could have anything to eat?”

  “What d'you think this is? A soup kitchen? This is an army on the march, this is. Who are you, anyway?”

  “I'm Lord Scarecrow's personal servant.”

  “Servant? That's a good'un. Soldiers don't have servants.”

  “Colonel Bombardo's got a servant,” said Jack, looking enviously at the colonel, who was sitting with several other officers at a table outside his tent, tucking into stew and dumplings while a servant poured wine.

  “Well, he's an officer,” said the sergeant. “If they didn't have servants, they wouldn't be able to put their trousers on, some of 'em.”

  “They get a lot to eat,” Jack said.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” said the sergeant, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Take this chitty to the cook, go on.”

  “Thank you! Thank you!” said Jack, and ran back to the cook, just in time to see the last soldier in the queue walking away with a full plate.

  The cook inspected the chitty.

  “Bad luck,” he said. “There's none left.”

  He showed Jack the empty stewpot. Jack felt tears springing to his eyes, but the cook winked and said:

  “None of that rubbish, anyway. You duck under here, and I'll give you some proper Catering Corps tucker.”

  Jack darted into the wagon in a moment and was soon sitting down with the cook and his two assistants, eating braised beef à la Bourguignonne, which was rich and hot and peppery and had little oniony things and big pools of gravy and delicate new potatoes and parsley and mint. Jack felt as if he were in heaven.

  He didn't say a word till he'd finished three whole platefuls.

  “Thank you!” he said finally. “Can I take some to my master?”

  “He's lunching with the colonel,” said the cook. “While you was gobbling that up, we had a message to send over another officer's meal. So you're joining the regiment, then?”

  “Well, Lord Scarecrow was taking the exam,” he said, “but I don't think he can have passed it. I better go and see.”

  “No hurry,” said the cook. “They'll be there for a while yet, with their brandy and cigars.”

  “Cigars?” said Jack in alarm, thinking of the Scarecrow's straw.

  “Don't worry. There's a bucket-wallah to put 'em out if they catch fire to theirselves.”

  “The regiment thinks of everything,” Jack said.

  “Oh, it's a grand life, being a soldier.”

  Jack began to think that maybe it was, after all. He thanked the cook again and strolled over to the sergeant, who was trimming his nails with a bayonet.

  “How did Lord Scarecrow get on in the exam?” he said.

  “He answered all the questions wrong. He doesn't know anything at all.”

  “So he won't be able to be a soldier, then?” said Jack, relieved.

  “Not a private, no, nor a sergeant, not in a hundred years. He's nowhere near clever enough. He's going to be an officer.”

  “What?”

  “Captain Scarecrow is taking his lunch with his fellow officers. You'll need to find him a horse and polish his boots and wash his uniform and keep him smart, and by the look of him you'll have your work cut out.”

  “But he doesn't know how to command soldiers!”

  “None of 'em do. That's why they invented sergeants. You better go and get him a uniform. The quartermaster's in that wagon over there.”

  Jack explained to the quartermaster that the Scarecrow needed a captain's uniform. The quartermaster laid a set of clothes and boots on the counter.

  Jack gathered them up, but the quartermaster said, “Hold on. He'll need a sword as well if he's an officer. And a proper shako. And a pistol.”

  The shako was the tall cap that the officers wore. It had a white plume in it and a shiny black peak. Jack's heart sank as he staggered over to the officers' table. Once he gets all this on, he'll want to be a soldier forever, he thought.

  “Ah, Jack, my boy!” said the Scarecrow happily as the officers left their table. “Did you hear the wonderful news? I'm a captain, no less! I did so well in the examination that they made me an officer at once.”

  Then he saw what Jack was carrying, and his turnip beamed with an expression of utter delight.

  “Is that for me? Is that my uniform? This is the happiest day of my life! I can hardly believe it!”

  Jack helped the Scarecrow put on the red coat, and the white trousers, and the shiny black boots, and two white belts that went over his shoulders and crossed on his chest, and another belt to hold his trousers up just in case. The poor Scarecrow was transfigured with joy.

  “Just let the birds try their tricks now!” he said, waving his sword around. “I bet no blackbird would dare to eat my brain if he saw me like this!”

  “Mind what you're doing with the sword, master,” said Jack. “It's just for decoration, really. Now you stay here, and I'll go and find a horse for you.”

  “A horse?” said the Scarecrow. He stopped looking joyful and looked nervous instead.

  “I'll get you a slow old one,” said Jack.

  “He won't want to eat me, will he? I mean, you know …,” said the Scarecrow, delicately twiddling at the straw poking out of his collar.

  “I don't think there's any hay in you, master,” said Jack, “only straw. You'll just have to show him who's boss. Or her.”

  The farrier, who was in charge of the horses, was busy putting some horseshoes on a docile old gray mare called Betsy. He said she'd be just the job for an inexperienced rider.

  “Captain Scarecrow's a good fighter,” said Jack. “He's fought brigands and actors and all sorts. But he hasn't done much riding.”

  “Nothing to it. Shake the reins to make her go, pull 'em back to make her stop.”

  “What about turning left and right?”

  “Leave that to her. Actors, did you say?” said the farrier.

  “Yes, he fought three of them at once. On a stage.”

  The farrier scratched his head and turned back to work. Jack led Betsy over to Captain Scarecrow.

  “He's very big,” said the Scarecrow doubtfully when he saw her.

  “He's a she. She's called Betsy. She's all ready to ride. Put your foot in the stirrup—there it is—and I'll lift you up.”

  They tried it three times. The first time the Scarecrow went straight over the top and down the other side, landing on his turnip and denting his shako. The second time he managed to stay there, but he was facing the wrong way. The third time he managed to stay in the saddle, facing the right way, but he'd lost his shako and dropped his sword, and his umbrella had come open in alarm.

  “Stay there, master, and I'll pick up the bits and pieces,” said Jack.

  He gathered up the sword and the shako, and soon he had the Scarecrow looking very proud and martial. Around them the regiment was striking camp, ready to move on, and presently the drums began to beat and the sergeant gave the order to march.

  Old Betsy pricked up her ears and began to amble forward.

  “Help!” cried the Scarecrow, swaying wildly.

  “Look, master,” said Jack, “I mean, Captain, sir, I'm holding the bridle. She won't go any faster while I'm here.”

  So they moved along behind the column of marching soldiers and the wagons and the horses, old Betsy keeping up a steady walk and the Scarecrow wobbling in the saddle.

  Presently he said:

  “By the way, where are we going, Jack?”

  “Dunno, master. I mean, Captain, sir.”

  “We're off to fight the Duke of Brunswick!” said another officer, a major, riding up alongside.

  “Really?” said th
e Scarecrow. “And what sort of bird is he? A great big one, I expect?”

  “I expect so, yes,” said the major.

  “Has he got a regiment, too?” said Jack.

  “Oh, dozens.”

  “But we're just one!”

  “Ah, the King of Sardinia's army is coming to join us.”

  “So there's going to be a great big battle?”

  “Bound to be.”

  “And when are we going to fight them?” said the Scarecrow.

  “Don't know. They could attack at any moment. Ambush, you know.”

  The major galloped away.

  “Jack,” said the Scarecrow. “This battle …”

  “Yes?”

  “I suppose I might get damaged?”

  “Yes. We all might.”

  “Could you by any chance find me some spare arms and legs? In case, you know …”

  “I'll make sure we've got plenty of spare parts, don't you worry, master.”

  “And you know, you were quite right about my brain,” the Scarecrow said reassuringly. “I don't miss it at all.”

  And on they marched, toward battle.

  Some way behind, Mr. Cercorelli had caught up with the astrologer.

  “I warn you,” he was saying sternly, “telling fortunes without a license can lead to a severe penalty. What do you know of this scarecrow?”

  The mystic bowed very deeply and said in a humble voice, “I cast his horoscope, your honor, and saw evidence of the deepest villainy. The planetary perfluminations—”

  “Don't waste my time with that nonsense, or I'll have you up in front of the magistrate. What did he tell you, and where did he go?”

  “He said he was going to Spring Valley, your honor.”

  “Did he, indeed? And did he set off in that direction?”

  “No, your worship. Quite the opposite.”

  “Did he say what he was going to do in Spring Valley?”

  “Yes, my lord. He said he was going to make a fortune, then go and take Spring Valley in hand. His very words! Naturally, I was going to report him as soon as I arrived at the nearest police station.”

  “Naturally. Here is my card. I expect to hear at once if you see him again, you understand?”