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Lo and behold! Instead of the three dancing men, there lay three great heaps of gold upon the floor, and the spendthrift stood staring like an owl. “There,” said the old man, “take what you want, and then go your way, and trouble me no more.”

“Well,” said the spendthrift, “of all the wonders that ever I saw, this is the most wonderful! But how am I to carry my gold away with me, seeing I did not fetch my basket?”

“You shall have a basket,” said the old man, “if only you will trouble me no more. Just wait here a moment until I bring it to you.”

The spendthrift was left all alone in the room; not a soul was there but himself. He looked up, and he looked down, and scratched his head. “Why,” he cried aloud, “should I be content to take a part when I can have the whole?”

To do was as easy as to say. He snatched up the iron candlestick, caught up the staff that the old man had left leaning against the wall, and seated himself upon the magic carpet. “By the horn of Jacob,” he cried, “I command thee, O Carpet! to carry me over hill and valley, over lake and river, to a place where the old man can never find me.”

Hardly had the words left his mouth than away flew the carpet through the air, carrying him along with it; away and away, higher than the clouds and swifter than the wind. Then at last it descended to the earth again, and when the young spendthrift looked about him, he found himself in just such a desert place as he and the old man had come to when they had found the treasure. But he gave no thought to that, and hardly looked around him to see where he was. All that he thought of was to try his hand at the three dancers that belonged to the candlestick. He struck a light, and lit the three candles, and instantly the three little old men appeared for him just as they had for the old graybeard. And around and around they spun and whirled, until the sand and dust spun and whirled along with them. Then the young man grasped his cudgel tightly.

Now, he had not noticed that when the old man struck the three dancers he had held the cudgel in his left hand, for he was not wise enough to know that great differences come from little matters. He griped the cudgel in his right hand, and struck the dancers with might and main, just as the old man had done. Crack! crack! crack! one; two; three.

Did they change into piles of gold? Not a bit of it! Each of the dancers drew from under his robe a cudgel as stout and stouter than the one the young man himself held, and, without a word, fell upon him and began to beat and drub him until the dust flew. In vain he hopped and howled and begged for mercy, in vain he tried to defend himself; the three never stopped until he fell to the ground, and laid there panting and sighing and groaning; and then they left and flew back with the iron candlestick and the magic carpet to the old man again. At last, after a great while, the young spendthrift sat up, rubbing the sore places; but when he looked around not a sign was to be seen of anything but the stony desert, without a house or a man in sight.

Perhaps, after a long time, he found his way home again, and perhaps the drubbing he had had taught him wisdom; the first is a likely enough thing to happen, but as for the second, it would need three strong men to tell it to me a great many times before I would believe it.

You may smile at this story if you like, but, all the same, as certainly as there is meat in an egg-shell, so is there truth in this nonsense. For, “Give a fool heaven and earth,” say I, “and all the stars, and he will make ducks and drakes of them.”

Fortunatus lifted his canican to his lips and took a long, hearty draught of ale. “Methinks,” said he, “that all your stories have a twang of the same sort about them. You all of you, except my friend the Soldier here, play the same tune upon a different fiddle. Nobody comes to any good.”

St. George drew a long whiff of his pipe, and then puffed out a cloud of smoke as big as his head. “Perhaps,” said he to Fortunatus, “you know of a story which turns out differently. If you do, let us have it, for it is your turn now.”

“Very well,” said Fortunatus, “I will tell you a story that turns out as it should, where the lad marries a beautiful princess and becomes a king into the bargain.”

“And what is your story about?” said the Lad who fiddled for Jew in the bramble-bush.

“It is,” said Fortunatus, “about–“