“No, you are all wrong,” said the little man meekly. “I have been making believe.”
“Making believe!” cried Dorothy. “Are you not a Great Wizard?”
“Hush, my dear,” he said. “Don’t speak so loud, or you will be overheard—and I should be ruined. I’m supposed to be a Great Wizard.”
“And aren’t you?” she asked.
“Not a bit of it, my dear; I’m just a common man.”
“You’re more than that,” said the Scarecrow, in a grieved tone; “you’re a humbug.”
“Exactly so!” declared the little man, rubbing his hands together as if it pleased him. “I am a humbug.”
“But this is terrible,” said the Tin Woodman. “How shall I ever get my heart?”
“Or I my courage?” asked the Lion.
“Or I my brains?” wailed the Scarecrow, wiping the tears from his eyes with his coat sleeve.
“My dear friends,” said Oz, “I pray you not to speak of these little things. Think of me, and the terrible trouble I’m in at being found out.”
“Doesn’t anyone else know you’re a humbug?” asked Dorothy.
“No one knows it but you four—and myself,” replied Oz. “I have fooled everyone so long that I thought I should never be found out. It was a great mistake my ever letting you into the Throne Room. Usually I will not see even my subjects, and so they believe I am something terrible.”
“But, I don’t understand,” said Dorothy, in bewilderment. “How was it that you appeared to me as a great Head?”