Suddenly they heard a shout of jeering laughter, and stopped short.
They would have to stop in a minute, anyway, for the huge mountain
barred their further progress and the path ran close up to a wall of
rock and ended.

"Who was that laughing?" asked Ozma.

There was no reply, but in the gloom they could see strange forms flit
across the face of the rock. Whatever the creations might be they
seemed very like the rock itself, for they were the color of rocks and
their shapes were as rough and rugged as if they had been broken away
from the side of the mountain. They kept close to the steep cliff
facing our friends, and glided up and down, and this way and that, with
a lack of regularity that was quite confusing. And they seemed not to
need places to rest their feet, but clung to the surface of the rock as
a fly does to a window-pane, and were never still for a moment.

"Do not mind them," said Tiktok, as Dorothy shrank back. "They are
on-ly the Nomes."

"And what are Nomes?" asked the girl, half frightened.

"They are rock fair-ies, and serve the Nome King," replied the machine.
"But they will do us no harm. You must call for the King, be-cause
with-out him you can ne-ver find the en-trance to the pal-ace."

"YOU call," said Dorothy to Ozma.

Just then the Nomes laughed again, and the sound was so weird and
disheartening that the twenty-six officers commanded the private to
"right-about-face!" and they all started to run as fast as they could.

The Tin Woodman at once pursued his army and cried "halt!" and when
they had stopped their flight he asked: "Where are you going?"

"I--I find I've forgotten the brush for my whiskers," said a general,
trembling with fear. "S-s-so we are g-going back after it!"

"That is impossible," replied the Tin Woodman. "For the giant with the
hammer would kill you all if you tried to pass him."

"Oh! I'd forgotten the giant," said the general, turning pale.

"You seem to forget a good many things," remarked the Tin Woodman. "I
hope you won't forget that you are brave men."

"Never!" cried the general, slapping his gold-embroidered chest.

"Never!" cried all the other officers, indignantly slapping their
chests.

"For my part," said the private, meekly, "I must obey my officers; so
when I am told to run, I run; and when I am told to fight, I fight."

"That is right," agreed the Tin Woodman. "And now you must all come
back to Ozma, and obey HER orders. And if you