The Count grew very grave and thoughtful. “Frederic,” said he, “you are really a sensible boy, and I must admit that Tutor Ink has always seemed to me a strange mysterious creature. Your mother and I are by no means satisfied with him, particularly your mother. He has such a terrible sweet-tooth, that there’s no way of keeping him from the sugar and jams. And, then, he hums and buzzes in such a distressing manner. But in spite of all this, my dear boy, just think calmly for a minute. Even if there are such things as Gnomes in the world, do you really mean to say that your Tutor has become a fly?”
Frederic looked his father steadily in the face with his clear blue eyes, then said:—
“I should not have believed it myself, if the Stranger Child had not said so, and if I had not seen with my own eyes that he is only a horrible fly, and pretends to be Tutor Ink. And then,” continued Frederic, while his father shook his head in wonder, “see what Mother says about him. Is he not ravenous for sweet things? Is that not just like a fly? And then his hummings and buzzings.”
“Silence,” cried the Count. “Whatever Tutor Ink is, one thing is certain, the Purple Bird has not bitten him to death! for there he comes out of the wood!”
At this the children uttered loud screams, and rushed behind the door. In truth, Tutor Ink was approaching, but he was wild-looking and bewildered. He was buzzing and humming, and springing high in the air, first to one side, then to the other, and banging his head against the trees. He tumbled into the house, and dashed at the milk-jug, and popped his head into it so that the milk ran over the sides. Then he gulped and gulped, making a horrid noise of swallowing.
“What ails you, Tutor Ink?” cried the Countess. “What are you about?”
“Are you out of your senses?” asked the Count. “Is the foul fiend after you?”
But without making any answer, Tutor Ink, taking his mouth from the milk-jug, threw himself down on the dish of butter, and began to lick it with his pointed tongue. Then, with a loud buzzing, he sprang off the table and began to stagger hither and thither about the room, as though he was drunk.
“This is pretty behaviour!” cried the Count, as he tried to seize Tutor Ink by the coat tails; but Tutor Ink managed to elude him deftly.
Just then Frederic came running up with his father’s big fly-flapper in his hand, and gave it to the Count, crying:—