“Are you telling this story, or am I?” he asked, coldly.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Marjorie, “please go on.”
“Was pouring down upon the ship,” continued the Sage, “and almost freezing the poor soldiers, who had great difficulty as it was, in dragging the heavy cannon up the steep side of the mountain, upon which he was standing; still leaning over the side of the balloon, she peered down eagerly into the sky. There was not a soul in sight.
“Suddenly a cry of ‘Fire!’ rang through the town, and two or three of them hastily putting on their best clothes, joined the picnic party under the gnarled oak tree in the meadow, and their joyous laughter rang merrily down the old staircase, where the grandfather’s clock stood, tick-tick-ticking, like the great volcano which yawned at their very feet, and into which the two boys plunged merrily, and were soon splashing about in the shallow water like a mahogany chest of drawers upon the sands of time.”
The Sage paused.
“Do you like it?” he inquired, anxiously.
“Not much, I’m afraid,” said Dick. “You see, we can’t quite understand what it’s all about.”
“Well, neither do I,” said the Sage, “because, you know, I’m making it up as I go along.”
“Then it isn’t true?” asked Marjorie.
“True? Nonsense! You wanted a story, didn’t you? This is a real story; there isn’t a particle of truth in it anywhere.”