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the Lion in such fine fettle. Just when her stomach could take no more, they came out into the light and saw before them a long, steep hill, covered from top to bottom with large rocks. “That will be a hard climb,” said the Scarecrow, “but we must get over the hill, nevertheless.”

He started up the arduous path and the others followed. They had nearly reached the first rock when they heard a belligerent-sounding voice elliptically cry out, “Back!” Then a head showed itself over the rock and the same voice said, “This hill belongs to us, and we don’t allow anyone to cross it.”

“But we must cross it,” said the Scarecrow. “We’re going to the country of the Quadlings.”

“You shall not!” replied the voice contentiously, and there stepped from behind the rock the strangest man the travelers had ever seen.

He was quite short and rotund and had a big head, which was flat at the top and supported by a thick neck full of wrinkles. But he had no arms at all, and the Scarecrow didn’t see how their climb up the hill could possibly be thwarted by a creature who looked so helpless. “I’m sorry not to do as you wish, but we must pass over your hill whether you like it or not,” he said with temerity as he continued walking through the proscribed area.

The Scarecrow soon found that the strange creature’s injunction was not mere bluster when, as quick as lightning, the man’s head shot forward and his neck stretched out until the top of his head, where it was flat, struck the Scarecrow in the middle and sent him tumbling, over and over, down the hill. Almost as quickly as it came, the head recoiled back to the body, and the man said pugnaciously, “You won’t try that again if you know what’s good for you!”

A chorus of boisterous laughter came from the other rocks, and Dorothy saw that the hillside was teeming with the armless Hammer-Heads. The Lion, roiled by the laughter at the Scarecrow’s expense, gave a loud roar and dashed up the hill.

Again a head shot swiftly out, and this sudden salvo sent the Lion rolling down the hill as if he had been struck by a cannonball. Dorothy, followed by the Tin Woodman, ran down the hill to help her battered friends to their feet. Like a miniature triage nurse, she tried to weigh their relative needs, but was momentarily paralyzed because those needs seemed to her in equipoise. Then, when she saw the Tim Woodman move toward the Lion, she automatically turned to help the Scarecrow. Both were shaken up, but otherwise intact. “It’s useless to fight people with shooting heads,” said the Lion, getting to his feet. “No one can withstand them.”

“What can we do?” Dorothy fretted. But no answer came because no one could think of a way to pass the insuperable barrier or even to ameliorate the knotty situation. Suddenly losing her

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