“But try and run like this,” the Carl admonished, and he gave a wriggling bound and a sudden outstretching and scurrying of shanks, and he disappeared from Cael’s sight in one wild spatter of big boots.
Despair fell on Cael of the Iron, but he had a great heart. “I will run until I burst,” he shrieked, “and when I burst, may I burst to a great distance, and may I trip that beggar-man up with my burstings and make him break his leg.”
He settled then to a determined, savage, implacable trot. He caught up on the Carl at last, for the latter had stopped to eat blackberries from the bushes on the road, and when he drew nigh, Cael began to jeer and sneer angrily at the Carl.
“Who lost the tails of his coat?” he roared.
“Don’t ask riddles of a man that’s eating blackberries,” the Carl rebuked him.
“The dog without a tall and the coat without a tail,” cried Cael.
“I give it up,” the Carl mumbled.
“It’s yourself, beggarman,” jeered Cael.
“I am myself,” the Carl gurgled through a mouthful of blackberries, “and as I am myself, how can it be myself? That is a silly riddle,” he burbled.
“Look at your coat, tub of grease?”