"Have no fear," replied his mother. "When you see that he is asleep, take your club and strike him in the middle of the forehead."
So it was agreed. Ah, yes! but Stan always had a bright idea at the right time. When he saw that the dragon and his mother had put out the light, he took the pig's trough, and laid it bottom upward in his place, covered it carefully with a shaggy coat, and lay down himself under the bed, where he began to snore like a person who is sound asleep.
The dragon went out softly, approached the bed, raised his club, and struck one blow on the spot where Stan's head ought to have been. The trough sounded hollow, Stan groaned, and the dragon tiptoed back again.
Stan then crept out from under the bed, cleaned it, and lay down, but was wise enough not to close an eye all night long.
The dragon and his mother were rigid with amazement when they saw Stan come in the next morning as sound as an egg.
"Good morning!"
"Good morning; but how did you sleep last night?"
"Very well," replied Stan. "Only I dreamed that a flea bit me just here on the forehead, and it seems as if it still pained me."
"Just listen to that, mother!" cried the dragon. "Did you hear? He talks about a flea, and I hit him with my club!"
This was too much for the she-dragon. She perceived that it isn't worth while to argue with such people. So they hastened to fill his sacks, in order to get rid of him as quickly as possible. But poor Stan now began to perspire. When he stood beside the bags, he trembled like an aspen leaf, because he was unable to lift even one of them from the ground. So he stood staring at them.