That journey toward Giggletown seemed endless and the night seemed endless too. They were always going up hill, it seemed, and never going down, so finally Peter judged they must be up very high among the cloud castles by this time. The stars seemed to become larger and larger and the moon did, too, until it seemed to fill the whole sky, and Peter could see the man in the moon looking at him with round, round eyes. And the velvet bats became so bold and big that they flew right down to the cart and made faces at Peter and squealed like mice. The rows of trees along the road looked like old men and old women with thousands of black arms reaching out to catch on to things, and one old elm tickled Peter’s cheek.
At last, when it certainly should have been close to morning, Peter heard Mig snoring on the front seat. The little magician’s head was slumped forward between his humped shoulders and bobbed around like a cork on top of water. But the white donkey kept on climbing and climbing, still with the disgusted expression. And then, Peter heard a tapping by his right hand and a little voice, seeming to come from the top box, said, “Let me out! Let me out! Oh, please, let me out!”
“It must be the princess,” thought Peter, putting his ear down close to the box. “Is that you, Princess?” he called, and the tiny voice replied, “Yes, yes, let me out! Let me out! Oh, please, let me out!”
“Yes, Princess,” whispered Peter, “I’ll let you out! Shh!”
He looked ahead at Mig still snoring and then he looked back. They were still climbing, up and up, and behind them dropped the steep road, down, down, down. “It’s just like the slide on Red Hill where we coast in winter,” thought Peter, and then the idea came to him. Yes, you’ve guessed it! That’s just what he was going to do!
He climbed on the top box, straddled it; then lay flat on it as you’d lie on a sled and gave it a shove. The box groaned a little, moved gently, and slid off the cart. Wheeee! Down the hill shot Peter, clutched tightly to the blue box, and on climbed the little white donkey toward Giggletown, the disgusted expression not so pronounced now because the cart was much lighter. Mig continued to snore and his head continued to bob.
That was a breathless ride for Peter, almost as breathless as the ride on the dragon. He closed his eyes tight and trusted to luck, because there was nothing else to do, now that the box was really on its way. Wheeee!--the box seemed to fly through the air,--down, down, down. Surely he’d have to stop sooner or later because the whole world wasn’t down hill, or else he’d hit something and stop that way. Zummmm--Zummmm--Zummmm!--The air sang in his ears. He opened his eyes and shut them again. Nothing but blackness as if he were plunging down a long black hole, just like Alice down the rabbit’s hole, thought Peter.
And then--Bang! Crash! Smash! Peter was thrown off the box and landed in the middle of a haystack. He was dazed for a moment but not hurt, and quickly he got up and ran to the box which was standing up on end and not broken open as he had thought it might be. No, it had been tightly locked.
Peter listened with his ear pressed against the box. There was no sound. Peter called, “Princess! Princess!” There was no answer. Maybe the bump had hurt her? Maybe it had broken her poor cracking heart.
“Princess! Princess!” he called again, much louder. Still no answer. Peter looked about, helplessly. He was in a little valley with trees all around, and a little brook running through, and golden haystacks in corners and by fences. In back stretched the road, going up and up toward Giggletown. The sun was just rising. Peter was puzzled. He didn’t know just what to do next.
And then a rapping came from the box, once more, and the little voice called, “Let me out! Let me out! Oh, please let me out!”
“Yes, yes, Princess, I will!” cried Peter. “Just a minute.”
Well, if he didn’t have his sword all this time! He had held it in his hand all the way down the hill, and now he took it out of its sheath and looked at it. It was a very strong sword and very sharp.
Peter fitted the sharp point into the gold lock; gave it a twist like a key, and click went the lock and back it sprang. The lid of the box leaped open with a weird, long-drawn cry and out something sprang like a spring from a clock,--something long and red, covered with glistening scales. Peter fell back, his hands before his eyes.
When he looked again, there, seated on top of a haystack, his eyes big with surprise, was a red dragon, redder than a salmon, redder than a red-breast, redder than the reddest rose. A red, red dragon but so shrunken in size, just like a red suit of clothes that’s been left out in the rain all night.
