Samson the Nugget was taken “all aback,” as the sailors say, at the unexpected attack of his wee but nimble opponent. Yet, before the dwarf had time to reach the garden wall, our hero was up and pursued his foe. Like a kangaroo when the hunters are in full cry, the little man bounded down the slope leading to the river, over the stream, and away across the open space, with prodigious leaps rather than with the stride of a runner. Tally-ho! A stern chase is a long chase, but in this case the adage could not be applied, inasmuch as our hero was sound in wind and limb, and, moreover, he was a sturdy pedestrian.
“OUR HERO WENT SPRAWLING HEADLONG OVER HIM.”
He soon gained upon his antagonist, when the latter, ready and fertile in devices, adopted tactics which gave him an advantage, and enabled him to over-reach his pursuer. They were on the edge of the bushland which bordered the plain, and the dwarf, slacking speed, suffered Samson to approach within arm’s length, when, turning suddenly, he cast himself flat down, whereupon our hero went sprawling headlong over him. Laughing triumphantly, the dwarf sprang to his feet, and jumped off again in the cover of the bush.
As the miner recovered himself and resumed the pursuit, he observed the chase unexpectedly disappear from view behind a tuft of coarse grass and weeds growing at the base of a gigantic blood-tree. Thinking the antic sprite was forming another trap, the young miner approached the spot cautiously. It was lucky he did so, for in parting the rubbish aside he discovered a wide, deep hole, about the dimensions of an ordinary well. There were neither steps nor ladder down this gaping pit, whose bottom lay far beneath the ken of Samson the Nugget, who stood gazing down the dim void, wondering if the little monster had vanished down it by some potent agency only known to himself. Watching and waiting, Samson satisfied himself that the dwarf had certainly gone down the hole, and he determined to follow him.
With this object in view, our hero marked the spot and retraced his way to the rock. Grapple still slept soundly. Not wishing to disturb him, the Nugget proceeded to the rear of the premises, where he found a long stout rope. With it he returned to the well. Having securely fastened one end of the rope to the tree, he threw the remainder down the chasm, and then began to descend hand over hand. It cannot be denied that this was a dangerous undertaking, but the Nugget, being a digger, and not lacking in pluck, the cost was not considered. From the first moment our hero had set eyes on the little monster it had somehow come to him that the sprite was in some mysterious manner connected with all the ruin and wreck he had seen at the rock.
Clinging firmly to the rope, the Nugget descended until he reached the end of it. Looking far down he beheld the same dark void, apparently bottomless. While he swayed to and fro like a toy at the end of a string, his pendant body thumped against something that sounded dull and hollow, and he saw he had burst open a secret door in the wall. Planting his foot firmly on the threshold of the aperture, the adventurer let go the rope and found himself in a low, arched cavern. The extremity brought him face to face with a bright landscape, varying both in hue and shade from the region he had just quitted. Right before him a tiny cascade of pure spring water spurted from the breast of the cliff on which he stood, and meandered its course through a belt of trees so quiet and silent that our hero felt appalled at its stillness. There was a broad, well-worn pathway down into the dell, and the Nugget made his way thither. As he walked smartly along, looking right and left of him, he espied a very ancient dame seated upon a bundle of firewood she had evidently gathered. By her side were two large baskets of wild fruit.
“Good-morrow, ma’am,” cried the miner, courteously lifting his hat. “Pray have you seen a very ugly little man pass this way?”
“My son, all men are lovely in my eyes,” replied the crone, and she looked at him with eyes that gleamed like the orbs of a cat in the darkness. “Do you know, I’m right glad you came this way. You look strong. Will you carry my parcels for me?”
“Certainly I will,” replied the Nugget cheerfully. “Where do you live?”
“My hut stands on the range yonder, on the other side of this bush. Dear me, how tired I am to be sure!”
How her cat’s eyes glowed as she looked at him! The Nugget did not see nor heed anything about the old woman; his whole thoughts were centred on the capture of his foe.
“Come, madam,” said he, “one good turn deserves another. Tell me where I may find the fellow I seek, and I’ll carry your goods and yourself on top of them.”
“Oh, good youth, haste is a bad master. If you seek for Dusk in haste, you’ll never find him.”
“Dusk! Who’s Dusk, mother?”
“The dwarf you came to find,” she answered quickly. “Beware, he’s a cunning sprite.”
The Nugget laughed. “I should only like the opportunity to measure weapons with the cowardly little imp,” he said. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes; he passed this way not an hour ago,” she answered.
“Thank you, dame. I’m off!” exclaimed our hero, hastily preparing to follow.
“Nay, good sir, you promised to carry my things,” responded the dame.
“Bother your things! I’ll return and carry them when I’ve caught Mr. Dusk.”
“You will have trouble for nothing if you try it,” she replied, her eyes glowing like coals of fire. “Fulfil your promise to me and I will help you.”
“Agreed,” cried our hero. “Make haste, good dame. Place the sticks upon my back and the baskets on my arms. That’s it. Now come along.”
Samson the Nugget, strong and powerful as he undoubtedly was, pulled a wry face as the load was put upon his person. The bundle of firewood seemed as heavy to him as so many bars of solid gold, while the baskets appeared to have been suddenly freighted with ingots of lead, the weight of which almost took away his breath. Nevertheless, our hero, nothing daunted, made an effort, and proceeded onward with his burden. Now, so long as the Nugget trod on level ground he managed pretty well, but when he came to the range and began its ascent, with the loose stones rolling from under his feet at every step, the man’s immense muscular strength began to fail. Drops of perspiration stood upon his face and ran down his back, now hot, now cold.
“My good woman!” he cried, “I can go no farther till I have rested.”
“Rested!” repeated the hag in scornful accents. “Hear the boaster. This is the man in search of Dusk, the strong. Hear him! He would attack the all-powerful genii; and yet, forsooth, he cannot carry what an old woman like me has so often borne up hill and down dale. Faugh!”
The Nugget put up his back like a vicious mule, and attempted to get rid of his load; but the sticks and the baskets clung to him as if these articles had grown there.
“Will you go on, sir?” cried the crone, with a mocking laugh.
The Nugget answered not; but with a vigorous effort tried to rid himself of the encumbrance. Vain task; his efforts only wearied him. Moreover, the hag made matters worse by jumping up upon the bundle of sticks; and though lean and withered as she certainly appeared, our hero felt her additional weight to be more than that of the stoutest wench of his acquaintance. To kick against the pricks was useless. So Samson, like a wise fellow, staggered on as he best could to the end of his journey. Arrived at the hut, the dame became kindness itself. She placed food and drink of the choicest kind before him, and when he had refreshed himself, said,—
“Young man, your task has been a severe one, but the reward I shall bestow will be all the greater on that account. For over twenty years no one has ever been found who could carry my parcels for me until to-day.”
“I don’t care to go shopping with you again in a hurry,” muttered the Nugget, stretching out his tired limbs.
“I have neither money nor property to give you,” she continued; “but my gift shall be more valuable to you than both combined. Behold! This is the horn of an enchanted ram. The animal was bred by my great grandsire, the King of Moonshine, and the relic has been handed down to me. Take it, my son, and let me caution you to use its wonderful power wisely. With that in your possession, Dusk, the griffin, cannot escape you. For whatever you may wish for this relic shall supply.”
With these words Mother Dot placed in the young man’s hand a small, curled horn, highly polished, and on which were engraven three figures, and some words, in a language he did not understand, written beneath them. The Nugget thanked the old lady for her gift, and having sufficiently refreshed and rested himself, he set forward in search of Dusk, the dwarf.