"And wouldn't any fish come to the little Prince unless he fished alone?" said the greedy Gunga.
"None," said Nod. "But there, why should we be gossiping of fishing? My boat is far away."
"But," said the Gunga cunningly, "I have a boat."
"Ohé, maybe," said Nod easily. "One cannot drown on dry land. But I did speak of a Bobberie of skin and Bemba-wood, made by the stamping Oomgar-nuggas next the sea."
"Ay," said the Gunga triumphantly, "but that's just what my Bobberie is made of, and I broke the backbone of the Oomgar-nugga chief that made it with one cuff of my cudgel-hand."
Nod yawned. "Tishnar's Prince is tired," he said, "and cannot talk of fishes any more. A bowlful more broth, Master Fish-catcher, and then I'll just put on my jacket and go to sleep." And he laughed, oh, so softly to himself to see that sooty, gluttonous, velvety face, and the red, gleaming eyes, and the thick, twitching thumbs.
"Ootz nuggthli!" coughed the Gunga sourly. He ladled out the broth, bobbing with broken pods, with a great nutshell, muttering angrily to himself as he stooped over the pot. And there, as soon as he had turned his back, came those two dark wondering faces at the window, grinning to see little Nod so snug and comfortable before the fire.
And when the Gunga had poured out the broth, he brought his stool nearer to Nod, and, leaning his great hands on the floor, he said: "See here, Prince of Tishnar, if I lend you my skin Bobberie to-morrow morning, will you catch me some fish with your magic song?"
Nod frowned and stared into the fire. "The crafty Gunga would be peeping between the trees," he said, "and then——"
"What then?" said he.