Have I left a single stone unturned to carry my point? demanded the Wolf
of himself. Yes, there is a chance for me yet. I have it! And full of
hope he came to the cottage of the sixth shepherd.
“Look at me, Shepherd!” he cried. “Am I not a splendid quadruped for my
years? What’s your opinion of my skin?”
“Very handsome and glossy indeed,” said the Shepherd. “You don’t seem to
have been much worried by the dogs.”
“No, Shepherd, no,” replied Isegrim, “I have not been much worried by
dogs, but I have been and am worried, awfully worried, Shepherd, by
hunger. Now, the case being so, as you admire my skin, you and I shall
strike a bargain. I am grown old, and cannot live many days longer: feed
me then to death, cram me to the gullet, Shepherd, and I’ll bequeath you
my beautiful skin!”
“Upon my word!” exclaimed the Shepherd. “You come to the person of all
on earth most interested in compassing your death, and you demand of
him the means to enable you to live. How modest of you! No, no, my good
fellow, your skin would cost me in the end seven times its worth. If
you really wish to make me a present of it, give it to me now. Here’s a
knife, and I’ll warrant you I’ll disembarrass you of it before you can
say Trapstick.”
But the Wolf had already scampered off.