“For all that and all that,” said the Luck of the Bean-rows, who had kept the prongs of his weeding-hook open, “you were stalking me.”
“Following you, following you, yes,” replied the wolf in wheedling tones, “in the hope of interesting you in my benevolent purpose, but in some more suitable place than this for conversation. Ah, I said to myself, if my lord Luck of the Bean-rows, whose reputation is spread far and wide, would but share in my scheme of reform, he would have to-day a splendid opportunity. I warrant that one quart measure of those dainty beans hanging from his staff would convert a tribe of wolves, wolflings and cubs to a vegetable diet, and preserve countless generations of bucks, does and kids.”
“It is the last of my measures,” thought the Luck to himself, “but what do I want with cups and balls, rubies and humming-tops? And who would put child’s play before something really useful?”
“There are your beans,” he said as he took the last measure his mother had given him for his amusement. All the same he did not shut the prongs of his hoe.
“It is all that was left of my own,” said he, “but I don’t regret it; and I shall be grateful to you, friend wolf, if you put it to the good use you have promised.” The wolf snapped his fangs on it and bounded away to his den.
“My word,” said Luck of the Bean-rows, “you are in a hurry to be off! May I ask, Master Wolf, if I am still far from the great town mother is sending me to?”
“You have been there for long enough,” replied the wolf, laughing out of the corner of his eyes; “and stay there a thousand years you will see nothing new.”
Yet once more Luck of the Bean-rows went on his way, and kept looking about for the town walls, but never a glimpse of them was to be seen. He was beginning to feel tired when he was startled by piercing cries which came from a leafy by-path. He ran towards the sound.
“What is it?” he shouted, and gripped his weeding-hook. “Who is it crying for help? Speak; I cannot see you.”