He was accompanied by my father, who held his hand and bowed repeatedly and most respectfully to him as he took his leave.
I must confess that I felt very uneasy upon seeing this and remained a long time in my hiding place, but at length hunger, which I disliked even worse than a thrashing, forced me to come out, and I stole into my father’s presence, shame-faced and with bowed head.
“I hear you have been playing your pranks upon the good little Mouk,” said my father in stern tones. “I am now about to tell you his story, after which I am quite sure you will never wish to mock and annoy him again; but first I must punish you for the offence you have committed, in the usual way.”
The usual way meant five-and-twenty strokes with the stem of his long pipe. Having unscrewed the amber mouth-piece, he used it to give me the sound thrashing I so richly deserved.
He did not spare me a single stroke, but when he had finished he ordered me to pay attention whilst he related the story of Little Mouk.
“The father of little Mouk, whose real name is Mukrah, was a highly respected, though poor man, who also lived here in Nicea.
“He was almost as much of a hermit as his son is. Unfortunately he could not bring himself to love his son, for he was ashamed of his dwarfish figure, and consequently he would not have him educated.
“Little Mouk was still but a merry child when he had reached the age of sixteen years, and his father, who was a stern man, scolded him frequently for being so foolish and full of tricks when he had passed the age of childhood.
“But one day the old man had a bad fall and hurt himself so much that he died, leaving poor ignorant little Mouk to fight his way in the world as best he could.
“His unkind relations, who had lent the dead man money which he would now never be able to repay them, turned the poor little fellow out of doors, advising him to seek his fortune abroad.