“Never mind,” puffed Dorothy, tucking Toto under her arm—for the poor bow-wow was completely worn out—“when we reach the top we’ll know where we are.” The trees had thinned out by this time and clouds of vapor hid the top of the mountain from view, but Dorothy and the Forgetful Poet kept climbing upward—on and on and up. “It’s a dreadful blue mountain,” said Dorothy at last, leaning against a rock. “It’s blue as blueing,” groaned Percy Vere, shaking a stone out of his shoe. “What’s this?” “What’s that?” cried Dorothy, in the same breath. Now this—as it happened—was a clothes horse, full of petticoats and pajamas—and as the two travellers stared at it in disbelief it kicked up its pegs and dashed off at a gallop, its petticoats and pajamas snapping in the breeze. And that was a wash woman—a wild, wild wash woman, her hair dragged up on top of her head and held in place by a couple of clothes pins. She had a clothes prop in one hand and a cake of soap in the other. Hurling both with all her might at Percy Vere, she turned and scrambled up the mountain, screaming in a dozen different keys as she scrambled. The clothes prop missed, but the great cake of soap caught Percy squarely in the stomach. “Ugh!” grunted the Forgetful Poet, sitting down from the shock: “How rude, how rough, how awfully wasteful— The lady’s manners are dis—dis—?” “Gusting,” panted Dorothy—who was too frightened to make a rhyme. “Can you fight?” she asked breathlessly, helping Percy to his feet. “I think there’s going to be a fight. Look!” Percy snatched up the cake of soap that had felled him and turned to see what was coming. Through the clouds of steam that hung over the mountain top there suddenly burst a terrible company. Toto hid his head in Dorothy’s blouse and the Forgetful Poet could think of no verse to express his feelings. No wonder! A charge of wild wash women is enough to frighten the bravest traveller and that is exactly what was coming. An army of wash women armed with long bars of soap, bottles of blueing, clothes props, wash boards, tubs and baskets. They were huge and fat, with rolled-up sleeves and cross, red faces, and the faster they ran the crosser they grew, and the crosser they grew the faster they ran. “Doesn’t seem polite to fight the ladies, but—” Percy raised his arm and flung the cake with all his might at the head of the advancing army. It struck her smartly on the nose and, with a howl of rage, she dropped her wash tub and rushed upon the two helpless adventurers. “Wash their faces! Iron their hands and wring their necks!” she roared hoarsely. “What are you doing here you—you—scutter-mullions!”