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A Piece Of Good Luck
by
And there, to my mind, she brewed good common-sense, that needed no skimming to make it fit for Jacob Stuck, or for any other man, for the matter of that.
And now for the end of this story. Jacob Stuck lived with his princess in his fine palace as grand as a king, and when the old king died he became the king after him.
One day there came two men travelling along, and they were footsore and weary. They stopped at Jacob Stuck’s palace and asked for something to eat. Jacob Stuck did not know them at first, and then he did. One was Joseph and the other was John.
This is what had happened to them:
Joseph had sat and sat where John and Jacob Stuck had left him on his box of silver money, until a band of thieves had come along and robbed him of it all. John had carried away his pockets and his hat full of gold, and had lived like a prince as long as it had lasted. Then he had gone back for more, but in the meantime some rogue had come along and had stolen it all. Yes; that was what had happened, and now they were as poor as ever.
Jacob Stuck welcomed them and brought them in and made much of them.
Well, the truth is truth, and this is it: It is better to have a little bit of good luck to help one in what one undertakes than to have a chest of silver or a chest of gold.
“And now for your story, holy knight,” said Fortunatus to St. George “for twas your turn, only for this fair lady who came in before you.”
“Aye, aye,” said the saint; “I suppose it was, in sooth, my turn. Ne’th’less, it gives me joy to follow so close so fair and lovely a lady.” And as he spoke he winked one eye at Cinderella, beckoned towards her with his cup of ale, and took a deep draught to her health. “I shall tell you,” said he, as soon as he had caught his breath again, “a story about an angel and a poor man who travelled with him, and all the wonderful things the poor man saw the angel do.”
“That,” said the Blacksmith who made Death sit in his pear-tree until the wind whistled through his ribs–“that, methinks, is a better thing to tell for a sermon than a story.”
“Whether or no that shall be so,” said St. George, “you shall presently hear for yourselves.”
He took another deep draught of ale, and then cleared his throat.
“Stop a bit, my friend,” said Ali Baba. “What is your story about?”
“It is,” said St. George, “about–“