He led them
through an entrance hall into a big reception room,
where they sat upon stone benches and awaited the
coming of the Dictator. Pretty soon he entered from
another room -- a rather lean and rather old Flathead,
dressed much like the others of this strange race, and
only distinguished from them by the sly and cunning
expression of his face. He kept his eyes half closed
and looked through the slits of them at Ozma and
Dorothy, who rose to receive him.
"Are you the Supreme Dictator of the Flatheads?"
inquired Ozma.
"Yes, that's me," he said, rubbing his hands slowly
together. "My word is law. I'm the head of the
Flatheads on this flat headland."
"I am Princess Ozma of Oz, and I have come from the
Emerald City to --"
"Stop a minute," interrupted the Dictator, and turned
to the man who had brought the girls there. "Go away,
Dictator Felo Flathead!" he commanded. "Return to your
duty and guard the Stairway. I will look after these
strangers." The man bowed and departed, and Dorothy
asked wonderingly:
"Is he a Dictator, too?"
"Of course," was the answer. "Everybody here is a
dictator of something or other. They're all office
holders.
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