The journey toward Giggletown seemed to go on forever, and so did the night.
They seemed to be climbing uphill all the time, never going down. Peter began to think they must be very high by now, perhaps even among the cloud castles.
The stars grew larger and larger. The moon seemed to grow bigger too, until it looked as if it filled the entire sky.
Peter stared up at it.
The man in the moon seemed to be staring right back at him with his great, round eyes.
The velvet bats became bolder and bigger as they traveled. Some of them flew right down to the cart, making funny faces at Peter and squealing like little mice.
The rows of trees along the road looked like old men and old women, with thousands of black arms stretching out in every direction as if they were trying to grab hold of something.
One old elm tree even reached close enough to tickle Peter’s cheek.
At last, when Peter thought morning must surely be near, he heard a strange sound from the front seat.
Mig was snoring.
The little magician’s head had fallen forward between his hunched shoulders. It bobbed up and down like a cork floating on water.
The little white donkey kept climbing and climbing, still wearing its disgusted expression.
Then Peter heard a tapping beside his right hand.
A tiny voice seemed to come from inside the top box.
“Let me out! Let me out! Oh, please, let me out!”
Peter’s eyes widened.
“It must be the princess,” he thought.
He leaned down and pressed his ear against the box.
“Is that you, Princess?” he whispered.
“Yes, yes! Let me out! Let me out! Oh, please let me out!”
“Yes, Princess,” Peter whispered back. “I’ll let you out. Shh!”
He looked toward the front of the cart.
Mig was still snoring.
Peter looked behind him.
The road was still climbing higher and higher, while the steep slope behind them dropped away into the darkness.
Peter stared at it.
“It’s just like the big slide on Red Hill where we coast in winter,” he thought.
Then an idea suddenly came to him.
Yes.
That was exactly what he was going to do.
Peter climbed onto the top box and straddled it. Then he lay flat on top of it, just as he would lie on a sled.
He gave the box a hard shove.
The box groaned softly.
It moved.
Then it slipped completely off the cart.
“Wheeee!”
Peter shot down the hill, clinging tightly to the blue box.
Behind him, the little white donkey continued climbing toward Giggletown. Without the heavy box, the cart was much lighter, and the donkey’s disgusted expression was not quite so strong.
Mig kept snoring.
His head kept bobbing.
Peter’s ride was almost as wild and terrifying as his ride on the dragon.
He squeezed his eyes shut and simply trusted his luck.
There was nothing else he could do now.
The box was already racing down the hill.
“Wheeee!”
It seemed to fly through the air.
Down, down, down they went.
Peter wondered when it would finally stop.
Surely the whole world could not be downhill.
Maybe he would hit something and come to a sudden stop.
“Zummmm! Zummmm! Zummmm!”
The wind screamed past his ears.
Peter opened his eyes.
Then he quickly shut them again.
There was nothing to see but darkness.
It felt as if he were plunging down a long, black hole.
“This is just like Alice falling down the rabbit hole,” Peter thought.
Then—
“Bang!”
“Crash!”
“Smash!”
Peter was thrown off the box.
He landed right in the middle of a haystack.
For a moment he lay there, dazed.
But he wasn’t hurt.
Peter quickly scrambled to his feet and ran toward the box.
It was standing upright on one end.
Peter had expected it to be smashed open, but it wasn’t.
The box was still tightly locked.
Peter pressed his ear against it and listened.
There was no sound.
“Princess!” he called.
“Princess!”
Nothing.
Peter’s heart sank.
Maybe the crash had hurt her.
Maybe it had broken her poor little cracking heart.
“Princess!” he called again, much louder.
Still nothing.
Peter looked around helplessly.
He was standing in a little valley surrounded by trees.
A small brook ran through the valley.
Golden haystacks stood in the corners of fields and beside fences.
Far behind him, the road climbed steeply upward toward Giggletown.
And now the sun was just beginning to rise.
Peter stood there, completely puzzled.
He had no idea what he should do next.
Then—
Rap, rap, rap!
The sound came from inside the box again.
The tiny voice cried out:
“Let me out! Let me out! Oh, please let me out!”
“Yes, yes, Princess!” Peter cried. “I will! Just a minute!”
Then Peter suddenly remembered something.
He still had his sword!
He had held it in his hand during the entire wild ride down the hill.
Peter pulled it from its sheath and examined it.
It was a strong sword.
And it was very sharp.
Peter placed the sharp tip against the golden lock.
He twisted it just as if he were turning a key.
Click!
The lock sprang open.
The lid of the box flew upward with a strange, long cry.
Something shot out of the box like a spring suddenly released from a clock.
It was long.
It was red.
And it was covered with shining scales.
Peter jumped backward and threw his hands over his eyes.
For a moment, he was too frightened to look.
Then he slowly lowered his hands.
There, sitting on top of the haystack, was a red dragon.
Peter stared at it in astonishment.
The dragon was redder than a salmon.
Redder than a robin’s breast.
Redder than the reddest rose.
It was a bright, fiery red dragon.
But there was something very strange about it.
The dragon had shrunk to a tiny size.
It looked like a red suit of clothes that had been left out in the rain all night and had shrunk until it was much too small.