On and on they jogged till they came to where two roads crossed, and there stood one who looked no better than he should. This was the Great Master of Black Arts himself; but of that the wood-chopper knew nothing at all.
“How do you find yourself, friend?” said the Master of Black Arts to the wood-chopper; “that is a fine horse that you have there, to be sure. Is he for sale now?”
“Yes,” said the wood-chopper, “the nag is for sale, and fifty dollars will buy him—only the bridle does not go along with the horse.”
Good! The wood-chopper might keep the bridle and welcome; but palm to palm for a true sale, and here was the money.
So they shook hands, and then the Master of Black Arts counted out the money, and the wood-chopper pocketed it, and he had never rubbed his fingers over so much in all of his life before.
Then, as quick as a wink, the Master of Black Arts drew a bridle out of his pocket. It was as thin as a wire and as light as silk, yet I tell you the truth when I say that if he had ever slipped it over the nose of the Clever Student it would have been an ill thing for him.
But the Student had his eyes open, and his wits about him. No sooner had his father taken the bridle off of him than—whisk! pop!—he changed himself into a pigeon and away he flew till the wind whistled behind him.
But the Master of Black Arts knew a trick as good as that, that he did. Whisk! pop!—and he became a hawk, and away he flew after the pigeon, and all that the wood-chopper could do was to stand and look after them—But he had the fifty dollars in his pocket, and that was something and more or less.
On and on flew the two, and if the pigeon flew fast, why, the hawk flew faster.
