MOTHER DOT.
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.
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.