Luck of the Bean-rows went on his way with a lighter staff; he felt sure he must be near the end of his journey, but he had hardly gone a hundred steps when he heard someone else calling:
“Behh, behh, bekky! Please stop, Master Luck of the Bean-rows!”
“I think I know that voice,” said the Luck, turning round. “Why, yes, of course! It is that bare-faced rogue of a mountain she-goat, which prowls around my field with her kids for a toothsome snack. So it is you, is it, my lady raider?”
“What is that about raiding, fair Master Luck? I guess your hedges are too thick, your ditches too deep, your fences too close for any raiding. All one could do was to nip a few leaves that pushed through the chinks of the wattles, and our pruning makes the stalks thrive. You know the old saying:
Sheeps’ teeth, loss and trouble,
Goats’ teeth pay back double.”
“Say no more,” broke in Luck of the Bean-rows; “and may all the ill I wished you fall upon my own head. But why did you stop me, and what can I do to please you, Madame Doe?”
“Misery me!” she sobbed, dropping big tears, “Behh, behh, bekky! it was to tell you that the wicked wolf had killed my husband, the buck; and now my little orphan and I are in sore need, for he will forage for us no more; and I fear my poor little kid will die of hunger if you cannot help her. So I called to you, noble Master Luck of the Bean-rows, to beg of pity one of those good quart measures of beans hanging from your staff. It will keep us till we get help from our kinsfolk.”
“What you ask, Lady Doe,” said the Luck, taking one of his two measures from his staff, “is an act of compassion and good will, and I am glad to do it for you.”
