chapter 8

The tiny horses-- and the stagecoach, with the Monkees inside-- reached the main highway, a bumpy dirt road, and kept right on going.

"It might be a good idea to find out where we're going," Mike said. "Does anybody know horse language?"

"Neigh," Davy replied.

"I can laugh in it, but I can't talk in it," Micky said.

"Unfortunately, this is no laughing matter," Mike said. "We have The Button. And we've escaped from King Hiram. But, for all we know, these horses are taking us and The Button right back to the king."

"No. It's okay!" Peter said. "We're headed for the border!"

"How can you be so sure?" Micky asked.

"Elementary," Peter replied. "We know that Bellevue is the shape of a postage stamp. Right? And we know that we're approximately in the center of it. Right? Well, by sighting through the crook of Davy's arm and getting the position of the sun, and comparing it with its position at the exact moment that Sam Directions gave us the right directions-- which had to be noon, since he was on his lunch hour-- I was able to determine that the horses were traveling north by northeast. And, together with the fact that the castle faces southwest, and the fact that Bellevue sticks up a little at the northwest corner-- where it didn't get licked before it as put on the envelope-- I was able to calculate the exact speed of the horses. Clear?"

Micky shook his head. "How do you know we're headed for the border?"

"I saw a sign," Peter replied. "It said, 'To the Border.'" He scowled. "Come to think of it, though," he said, "it was pointing in the other direction. Is that important?"

"Probably not," Micky answered. "If we're heading away from one border we must be headed for the other border."

"There's something else that makes it fairly irrelevant, too," Mike said. He pointed out the rear window of the stagecoach.

Micky and Peter looked. (Davy could not look because he was on the bottom.) They saw that they were being persued by a large stagecoach pulled by large horses. It was being driven by H. P. I. Smith. And seated beside him was King Hiram.

"I just checked the position of the sun again," Peter said, "and according to my new calculations, big horses run faster than little horses."

"What's going on?" Davy asked from the bottom of the coach. "All I can see is that Mike's elbow is in Micky's eye."

"That's more than I can see," Micky said.

"In about two minutes, you'll be able to see everything," Mike informed Davy. "By then, King Hiram and Smith, who are chasing us in a bigger stagecoach, which is drawn by larger horses, will have caught up with us. And my guess is that after they get The Button they'll pry us out of this cracker box and take us back to the dungeon." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Unless..." he said.

"Unless one of their horses gets a flat hoof?" Peter speculated.

Mike shook his head. "Unless we can find the escape hatch," he said. "Think about it. How is it possible for fifty-seven six-foot clowns to get into a space that's crowded for four normal-sized Monkees?"

Peter suddenly brightened. "Of course!" he said.

"How?" Davy asked.

"They looked taller than they were," Peter explained. "They weren't six-foot-- they were only five-eleven. Right, Mike?"

"That's possible," Mike replied. "But it wasn't what I had in mind. My guess is that they weren't all in the stagecoach at the same time."

"That's it!" Micky said. "One of then was in Peoria, Illinois. I thought I recognized him. I saw him in Peoria in the spring of '32."

"You weren't even born in the spring of '32," Davy pointed out.

"It must have been somebody else then," Micky replied. "Sorry to throw a Monkee wrench into your theory," he said to Mike.

"That wasn't my theory," Mike said. "My theory is that there's a trapdoor in the bottom of this stagecoach. The trapdoor undoubtedly leads to a tunnel. And the tunnel undoubtedly leads to the clowns' dressing room. Now, see how it's done?"

"I think I understand it," Peter said. "One of the clowns was in Peoria and the others are only five-eleven. Is that it?"

"Close," Mike replied. "Davy," he said, "try to find the trapdoor."

"And hurry!" Micky urged. "King Hiram has practically caught us!"

"I found it!" Davy said excitedly.

"Can you open it?" Mike asked.

"There isn't room-- it opens up," Davy replied. "Somebody will have to get out."

"I'll go ride with King Hiram for a while," Peter said. "It looks comfier back there anyway."

"There isn't time," Mike decided. "Micky, you get on Peter's shoulders. That'll give Davy more space."

"I'm already on Peter's shoulders," Micky told him.

"That's not the problem, anyway," Davy said to Mike. It's down here that I need more room, not up there."

"Okay, then you crawl up here and get on Micky's shoulders, and I'll open the trapdoor," Mike said.

Davy clambered up Mike, then up Peter, then up Micky, then perched on Micky's shoulders.

"I don't know what you were complaining about," Mike said to Davy. "There's plenty of room down here."

Mike put the midget's hat on the seat of the stagecoach. Then, with both hands, he got hold of the iron ring on the trapdoor and pulled. It opened! Below, he could see a well-lighted tunnel.

"The theory checks out!" Mike reported to the others.

"I knew I saw that guy in Peoria!" Micky said, vindicated.

One by one, the Monkees dropped through the trapdoor into the tunnel. They closed the door behind them and then looked around. The tunnel had been carved out of solid rock. Here and there along the walls there were burning torches.

"It looks like a lake in the Middle West," Peter said.

"A lake?" Micky asked.

"Erie." Peter shuddered.

"Let's get a move on," Mike said. "King Hiram has probably already caught up with the stagecoach. It won't take him long to find that trapdoor. Then he'll be hot on our heels again."

Hurrying, the Monkees proceeded through the tunnel. Then suddenly, they came to a fork.

"I don't want to be an alarmist--" Mike began.

"To the left, to the left," Peter urged.

"Now, just a minute," Mike said. "One of these forks goes to the clowns' dressing room and the other goes to the Unknown. Why are you so sure we should go left?"

"I learned that lojng ago when I was a little kid," Peter replied. "When I was learning to set the table, my mommy always said,'The knife on the right and--'"

"All right, all right-- the fork on the left." Mike nodded.

Taking the fork to the left, the Monkees hurried forward. A few minutes later, however, they were stopped by a wide underground river that was swarming with crocodiles.

"To the left, eh?" Mike said to Peter.

"What do you expect when you take advice from a little kid who doesn't know his left from his right?" Peter replied defensively.

"We'd better go back," Micky said.

"We can't go back," Mike insisted. "King Hiram is in the tunnel by now. If we go back, we'll run straight into him."

"But we can't cross the river," Micky argued. "Those crocodiles look as hungry as alligators."

"I think we can do it," Mike said. "We'll form a human bridge."

"Now, why didn't I think of that," Micky said, disgusted with himself. "All I could think of was to form the Golden Gate Bridge."

"I won't be any help," Peter said. "I cannot tell a lie-- I'm the George Washington Bridge."

"You can be in disguise," Mike informed him.

Without further delay, the Monkees formed a human bridge. Micky climbed up on Mike's shoulders. Peter climbed up on Micky's shoulders. Then Davy climbed up to the top.

"Something went wrong," Davy said. "From up here it looks like we formed a human totem pole."

"Patience," Mike said.

Mike moved forward a few steps. He halted at the edge of the river, then leaned forward. The whole totem pole fell. In the nick of time, Davy got a hold on the bank at the far edge of the river.Thus, the Monkees were stretched across the water, forming a human bridge.

"Boy, I bet we'd be something to see at night if we had colored lights," Peter said.

In the distance, a whistle tooted.

"Hurry up!" Davy said. "There's a boat coming and we forgot to be a drawbridge!"

Quickly, Mike crawled up onto Micky's back and then crossed Peter and Davy to safety. Micky followed, crossing over Peter and Davy. Peter was next, crossing Davy. Finally, the other three pulled Davy up onto the bank.

"If a job ever opens up for a bridge, I'm going to have it made," Davy said. "I've had a couple seconds' more experience than the rest of you."

Once more, the Monkees proceeded through the tunnel. They were making pretty good time, when all at once, from ahead of them, they heard a terrible roar. They stopped, startled.

"What was that?" Davy asked.

"Well, first off, I think we can eliminate mice, chipmunks, and pussy cats as possibilities," Mike replied.

"I think I recognized it," Micky said. "It's the landlord."

"Couldn't be," Peter said. "This isn't Wednesday."

"It came from around that bend in the tunnel," Mike said. "The logical thing would be to take a look."

"Right," Micky said. "Let's wait till it peeks around the corner and takes a look at us."

"You know," Davy said, "maybe we were wrong to eliminate the mouse so quickly. It might be a mouse with a bull horn."

"Sure. What are we afraid of?" Micky said. "Mike, you go look."

"Somebody has to do it," Mike agreed. "But I don't want to hog all the glory myself. If one of you--"

In unison, Davy, Micky, and Peter shoved Mike toward the corner.

Mike peeked, looked for a moment, then returned to where the others were waiting. "It's a prehistoric monster," he reported.

"Rats!" Peter said. "I was sure it was going to be a bull with a saxophone."

"Could you be a little more specific?" Micky asked. "There're oodles and oodles of prehistoric monsters. There's the Tyrannosaurus and the Stegosaurus and the Diplodocus and the Ankylosaurus and the Tricerotops and the Struthiomimus and--"

"And the Bibliophile," Davy said.

"And the Metatarsal," Peter added.

"I'll describe it," Mike offered. "It's about two stories high--"

"Which two stories?" Micky asked. "Try to be as specific as possible."

"'Paul Bunyan at Yale' and 'Edgar Allan Poe and His Electric Sister-in-Law,'" Mike reported.

"Hey, that's big!" Micky said. "Those are pretty tall stories. Pray continue."

"Well," Mike continued, "it has a body like a two-story rhinoceros, a tail like a mouse with a bull horn at the wrong end, a head like a scoop shovel, and three horns-- count 'em-- three."

"Yes, yes, keep going," Micky said.

"About eight billion years ago it was a vegetarian," Mike said.

"A triceratops!" Micky, Peter, and Davy cried fearfully in unison.

At that very moment, the terrible roar was heard once again.

"It's coming this way!" Peter shrieked.

"What're we worried about? We're not vegetables," Mike said. "A vegetarian wouldn't touch us with a ten-foot fork."

"But if it's coming this way it'll pass right over us," Micky said.

"That'll make us vegetables," Mike said. "Squash."

The triceratops appeared from around the bend in the tunnel. It halted and stared blankly at them.

"If we can just keep it from moving," Mike said, "maybe we can crawl underneath it and get by it. But if it moves... and one of us gets caught under one of those clunky feet...."

"he'll play flat the rest of his life," Micky said, completing the thought.

"That's it!" Mike said. "What is it that soothes the savage beast? Music! We'll play him a tune. And, as soon as he's soothed, we'll crawl past him."

"He doesn't look like much of a music lover to me," Davy said doubtfully.

"Also, we left our instruments back at the castle," Micky said.

"Where's your good ol' American know-how?" Mike challenged. "We'll fake it."

So, faking it, Mike and Peter took up guitars, Micky sat down at the clavichord, and Davy snatched up the tamborine, and they swung into a medley of their favorite songs.

After the first four bars the triceratops let out another terrible roar. Its giant tail stiffened like a stick.

"We're getting to it," Mike said.

After eight bars the triceratops tried to stuff its feet into its ears.

"He must be turned on," Davy said, "because he sure looks like he's trying to turn himself off."

The triceratops roared once more-- this time in total panic. It began retreating. It dis appeared around the bend. A moment later the ground began to tremble as the huge prehistoric animal made its escape, lumbering, fear-stricken, into the depths of the tunnel.

"Boy, we sure soothed the pants off that kid," Micky said proudly.

"I don't want to boast," Davy said, "but I think it was my tambourine that did it. It was the first ring-a-ding-a-ding that put the starch in his tail."

"I just hope all that snorting and roaring didn't stir up the natives," Mike said.

"What natives?" Micky asked.

Mike pointed. A band of savage-looking prehistoric cavemen had appeared around the bend of the tunnel and were peering widly at the Monkees.

"They don't look stirred up," Davy said. "They look rather friendly." He waved at the cavemen. "Hello chaps! Just passing through on our way to the clowns' dressing room."

Beginning to look decidedly unfriendly, the cavemen surrounded the Monkees.

"Mwaga kooka-racha!" the leader said, pinching Davy's arm.

"And they laughed at me in junior high when I took caveman instead of French," Micky said. "If they could only see me now! Boy, they'd still be laughing."

"You mean you understand that language?" Mike asked.

"Speak it like a native," Micky replied.

"What did that one say when he pinched my arm?" Davy inquired.

"He said, 'Season with cloves and bake in a slow oven, twenty minutes per pound.'"

Another caveman spoke up. "Boola-boola hoola hoop!" he said.

"Translation?" Mike said to Micky.

"He's telling the other one we're gods of some kind," Micky replied.

"We're saved!" Davy cried happily.

Micky shook his head. "He was only pointing out that gods take longer in the oven. He was suggesting twenty-five minutes per pound."

"I don't want you guys to think I'm trying to run things," Mike said, "but I think we'd better get out of here."

"Mango-mango, tak to too tango!" the leader of the cavemen said angrily.

"Something about bad manners," Micky translated. "They don't want us to run before thay eat."

"Running won't do it anyway," Mike said. "Our best bet is to walk away from here very, very calmly."

"Won't they try to stop us?" Micky asked.

"Not if we play it smart," Mike replied. "Everybody comb your hair over your eyes."

"Scooba-dooba!" the leader of the cavemen objected.

"When he said 'everybody,' he just meant us," Micky explained to him.

Quickly the Monkees combed their hair over their faces. Then nonchalantly they moved through the surrounding cavemen and walked away. Baffled, the cavemen stood rooted. Because, of course, with their hair combed over their faces, the Monkees looked the same from both the front and the rear, and the simple cavemen were unable to tell whether they were coming or going.

When the Monkees reached safety around the bend, tehy cleared their vision.

"We'll have to try that again next Wednesday when the landlord comes around," Peter said. "Although, frankly, it was a little scary being in there in the dark all alone."

The Monkees continued on their way along the tunnel. Soon they came to a wall of fire. But fortunately there was a door in it, so they passed through it without any trouble.

A while later they came upon a giant who was chanting, "Fee-fie-foh-fum! I smell the blood of an Englishman!"

"That's probably me," Davy repied. "I've had this blood so long it's getting gamy."

The giant was delighted. He had finally found the source of the odd odor that had been bothering him so long. In gratitude, he allowed the Monkees to pass-- after getting an assurance from Davy that they would not return.

Not long after that, The Monkees reached a plain, ordinary door, over which, in neon letters, were the words:

Mike opened the door, and he and the others dashed from the tunnel. Then they instantly halted. The clowns' dressing room was a shambles. Trunks were ripped open. Costumes were flung here and there. Clowns were skattered about the room helter-skelter.

"What happened?" Mike asked, dismayed.

Painfully, one of the clowns dragged himself to his feet. "Where were you when that wild triceratops went roaring through here?" he asked.

"I don'tthink we'd better answer that," Mike replied.

The Monkees hurried from the dressing room, then stopped and looked around. The performance had apparently just ended, for a huge crowd was pouring from the main tent.

"Easy does it," Mike said. "We have to get out of here before we're spotted by that lady midget. She probably wants her hat back."

"Why don't we give it to her?" Davy asked. "We don't need the hat, do we? All we need is The Button."

"Right," Micky said. "Show me a man who'd deprive a lady midget of her hat and I'll show you a man who'd deprive a small table with a skirt on it of its flowerpot."

"You're right," Mike said. "We'll give her the hat back."

Spotting Sam Directions nearby, the Monkees asked him the way to the lady midget's tent. He was only too happy to help them. And finally, after wandering around lost for an hour or so, they found the tent that the lady midget called home.

"We brought your hat back to you," Mike said to her.

The lady midget was overjoyed. "I knew you were good boys-- in spite of that hair," she said. "Where's my hat?"

"It's right here in my--" Mike began, holding out a hand.

"It's not there," Micky advised him.

It has to be there!" Mike insisted. "It was there when we were riding in the stagecoach. I remember it as clear as day. I put it on the seat to open the trapdoor. Then I--" He sighed forlornly. "Then I didn't pick it up again," he concluded.

"Where's my hat?" the lady midget demanded.

"Lady, are you sure you were wearing a hat when you mounted that catapult?" Micky asked. "A lot of people make that mistake, you know. They'll climb up on a catapult, thinking they're wearing a hat, and then, an hour later, when they get to the hat-check girl--"

"I want my hat!" the lady midget raged.

"Can you describe it?" Peter asked.

"You might have gone out this morning with a flowerpot on your head," Davy said. "That happens a lot, too."

The lady midget began throwing things.

The Monkees ran from her tent, ducking the bottles, shoes, and vases that were being pegged at them.

"Let that be a lesson to us," Micky said. "A good deed a day is one too many!"