L HAD sat listening to these jolly folk for all this time,
and I had not heard old Sindbad say a word, and yet I
knew very well he was full of a story, for every now and then
L could see his lips move, and he would smile, and anon
he would stroke his long white beard and smile again.

Everybody clapped their hands and rattled thetr canicans
after the Blacksmith had ended his story, and methought
they liked tt better than almost anything that had been told.
Then there was a pause, and everybody was still, and as
nobody else spoke IL myself ventured to break the silence. “I
would like,” said I (and my voice sounded thin in my own
ears, as one’s voice always does sound in Twilight Land), “T
would like to hear our friend Sindbad the Sailor tell a story.
Methinks one is fermenting in his mind.”

Old Sindbad smiled until his cheeks crinkled into
wrinkles.

“ Aye,” said every one, ‘will you not tell a story ?”

“To be sure L will,’ said Sindbad. “TI will tell you a
good story,” said he, “ and it ts about—

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