re to lock him up and throw away
the key. Mark Twain asked how things were going and assured him that,
while the plane would not be able to transport him home, he felt certain
that, when the time came, a way would be found which would enable him to
return. "If not," Mark Twain said, "not to worry. There'd never be a
dull moment in Oz!"

_Oh, that's just great!_ thought Graham. Now there was a chance that he
would not get back. But did not Shakespeare say that he wanted him to
inform the world that he had written his own stuff? He would not have
said that if he did not think that the boy would get home to tell the
tale. _What am I saying?_ thought Graham. _None of this is really
happening. I'm just having the most gigantic, craziest dream anyone has
ever had_.

"By the way," said Mark Twain, interrupting Graham's thoughts. "Here are
a couple of letters I forgot to mail to my poet friend, Bayard Taylor.
They should probably be in some collection somewhere so, if you'd take
them back with you, I'd appreciate it. I said in one letter that I'd
probably forget to stamp it, and I did." Twain handed Graham the letters
and indicated that he did not mind the boy's reading them if he wanted
to.

_There I go again_, thought Graham, _believing in my own dream._ In any
event, he settled back in the seat and began to read the letters.
However, before he could really get started, Charles Dickens interrupted
him.

"As usual, this Twain fellow takes over and hogs the conversation. In
the very near future, young Graham, you and I will get together, and
I'll tell you some very interesting stories of my childhood. In the
meantime," he said, scribbling on a piece of paper that had some kind of
drawing on it, "I have autographed a sketch of Boz to take back with
you. Boz was the name I used when I first embarked on my literary
adventures. In case you are wondering if there is a cryptic connection
between Boz and Baum and Oz, you'll have to keep wondering about that. I
was born at Portsea, Portsmouth, a few minutes before midnight on the
seventh of February, 1812, forty-four years before Mr. Baum was born. I
came to Oz in 1870, when Mr. Baum was only fourteen years old. He was
not destined to write about Oz until some thirty years later. Now, when
you come back, I'll tell you some more about my early days, and I'll
make sure that our friend Twain doesn't bask in his self-perceived
limelight while we're having our important discussions."