"Friend," said the young gentleman, "you carry more than a church mule. What is your name?"
"I am called Carry-much Carry-more, son of The Stout Carrier," answered the man.
"Would you like to come with me?"
"If your worship is as much for taking me as I am for going, yes."
So they went on together.
At the end of an hour they found a man who was blowing hard enough to burst his cheeks; sending forth more wind than the bellows of the forge of that Bulcan[190] who, they say, was a giant blacksmith, of those you hear tell about.
"What are you doing here?" asked the gentleman.
"Don't speak, your worship," said the man, "for I mustn't leave off blowing. I have to keep forty-five mills a-going with my wind."
"And what is your name?"
"Blow-hard Blow-harder, son of The Hard Blower," answered the man.