The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. The Pebbled Path. Nine.

The sun was setting as Gullet took Tim off the hummock onto a narrow pebbled path that led through the Bog of Sluggery.

“We should get to the Toll Man just about midnight” Gullet told Tim. “Until then if we stay on the path we should be safe from the more ambitious predators.” Gullet did not sound too sure of himself.

“Who is the Toll Man?” asked Tim.

“Oh, he is the only one who can let us out onto a civilized road from the Bog” said Gullet. “Without his help we’ll be going in circles and sink into the murky mud before you can whistle up a shoelace.”

They hurried along the path as it grew dimmer and dimmer. Up ahead a herd of loggerheads slowly butted each other in the head, blocking the way.

“Fidgey widkins!” cried Gullet in dismay. “They’ll be at that for hours. We’ll have to take our chances and detour around them.”

Looking apprehensive and seeming to shrink even smaller than he was, Gullet delicately stepped off the path, motioning Tim to follow him. They tiptoed through some sandpaper grass and nearly fell into a schmoozle hole. They could hear the schmoozle breathing stentoriously at the inky bottom of it. Then a triggernoma tree made a grab for them with its waving branches covered with sticky sap. It snatched Tim’s green felt hat right off his head. Tim decided he wouldn’t fight the tree for it, and they kept going around the loggerheads -- who could be heard bellowing in the thickening darkness.

Slabber bats flew overhead, cheeping irritably while they looked for their first hors d'oeuvre of the night.

“Look out!” cried Tim, but it was too late. Something white and steaming rose up from the quivering ground to engulf Gullet like a giant overly affectionate marshmallow.

“Glurg!” hollered Gullet. “Don’t stop -- run! It’s an albino bumperstucker! There’s no escape -- I’m a goner . . . “    

Tim stood rooted to the spot in terror, but then his new-found hero heart started beating like a military drum. Marching up to the white bumperstucker, Tim gave it a kick. Which did absolutely no good. In fact, it nearly caused Tim to be sucked in along with Gullet. Backing up a few paces Tim nervously ran his hands up and down his coat, desperately trying to think of some way to save Gullet.

“The lumdiddle flasks!” he said to himself. “I wonder if they’re any good in a situation like this?”

No sooner said than done -- Tim took out a flask, uncorked it, and threw it at the bumperstucker as it began to sink back into the ground with Gullet still feebly struggling inside it. The flask stuck to the bumperstucker upside down. The pimento wine came dribbling out, as did the lumdiddle -- which immediately began boring its way inside the white monster.

Gurgling and murgling, as if it were being tickled, the albino bumperstucker split wide apart like a milkweed pod and Gullet came scrambling out. Covered in white goo, he scrambled away from the shaking white blob, which, indeed, was being tickled to death by the now wide awake lumdiddle. The two creatures sank together into the ground, to battle things out, no doubt, to the bitter end.

“You saved me!” gasped Gullet. “Why would you do that, when I wanted to eat you?”

“I need you to guide me out of here” Tim said simply. “And something has gotten into my heart that won’t let me run away anymore” he thought silently to himself.

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SPONSORED CONTENT.

PETM (People for the Ethical Treatment of Monsters) doesn’t believe a good story needs to show any violence towards those misunderstood creatures that are sometimes labeled as ‘monsters.’ In the above scene, it is hinted that the lumdiddle is cruelly boring a hole into the albino bumperstucker -- and that they will both perish in great pain. An alternative scenario could have shown the bumperstucker rising up from the wet ground to greet the protagonists and offer to protect them from any further danger -- all in the name of Being Helpful. This would show the albino bumperstucker in a better light, and spare the tender feelings of anyone reading this story who might feel sorry for the bumperstucker when it is tortured by the lumdiddle. We would ask that as you continue to read this story you ask yourself: Is This Monster’s Demise Really Necessary?” And if you feel it is not, please stop reading this story and boycott any further stories by this author until he can earn the MAPT (Monsters Are People Too) Seal of Approval from us. Thank you.

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Household Debt Makes a Comeback in the U.S.

The Federal Reserve Bank of New York said Wednesday that total household debt had reached a new peak — $12.7 trillion — in the first three months of the year, another milestone in the long, slow recovery of the United States economy.
from the NYTimes 

There was a young couple from Trent

Who got into debt cuz they spent

So much on lattes

That now they must raise

Quadruple the money they spent.

The Local Hardware Store

When praise I wish to stoutly pour,

Twill be local hardware store.

They know my name and what I need

And get it with amazing speed.

No waiting round or getting lost

Or worrying about the cost.

They know just how a thing is made

And summers they serve lemonade.

Welcomed to just sit and yammer,

Looking for a ball peen-hammer.

A local merchant I can trust --

As wonderful as fresh sawdust.

No box store can this shop replace,

Where commerce is a welcome grace.

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. The Bog of Sluggery. Eight.

Now there are bogs, and there are bogs. Most bogs are rather pleasant and peaceful places, though soggy. They are filled with tall grasses and waving cattails; frogs and turtles splash about in a carefree fashion; the muskrat industriously ferries baby ducks on its back when mother duck has a canasta party; and there are bright marsh flowers that scent the air with aldehyde and muguet. The circulating waters are clean and pure, having been filtered for centuries through peat moss and lignite. Tall and majestic cypress and willow poke through the clammy ground to give shade and shelter to many varieties of wild fowl -- such as the rufous button bird, the towheaded meeble, and the stilted motto. It is a welcoming region, where children can frolic barefoot in complete safety while gathering indigenous candyweed and honeyberries to bring home for the family larder.

But some bogs have a chip on their shoulders.

The Bog of Sluggery is one of these other types of bog, the kind of place you never want to be stranded in after dark -- and really don’t want to visit during the day, either. It is stagnant and fetid, with layer after layer of dead and decaying matter at the bottom of the water. And sometimes the dead things forget they are dead and rise up when the moon glowers down on them, to shamble about in hoary confusion. Instead of frogs and turtles, there are snakes and alligators. A gelid scum covers the muddy ground, discouraging the growth of anything but spiked hornwood and pouting toadstools. The dead trees shelter no birds -- only disgusting slabber bats. Strange pulsating lights drift about at night, smelling of wet ashes.

This is the terrible place Tim Laughingstock found himself involuntarily deposited as the guards and Constable slowly pulled away on their raft, leaving him stranded on a slippery hummock full of barking worms and daddy longlegs. He had with him only his two flasks of pickled lumdiddles and his bag of King's gold coins -- for although the guards and the Constable were implacable when Tim begged for mercy, they were also rigidly honest and never gave a thought to depriving the poor exile of his gold -- much good would it do him in the Bog of Sluggery, where he'd probably be dead by nightfall anyway.

Tim felt very sorry for himself. He had set out from Mountebank with such keen expectations, and now he was marooned in a dismal bog -- an outcast and a failure. He sniffed mightily to keep his tears of disappointment and fear from turning into an embarrassing cascade. His misery kept him from noticing a little man dressed all in black come strolling up behind him.

“Good day to you, delicious man!” said the little fellow in black.

Startled, Tim whipped around to face the little man -- wondering sullenly if this was the bog creature slated to do him in and leave his bones moldering on the ground. But Tim had been brought up to always return a polite greeting with one of his own -- even when stranded in a scummy bog.

“Um, good day to you . . . little man” he replied. “I hope this day finds you well.”

“Why, thank you!” replied the little man, smiling and revealing a set of enormous white teeth. “I believe today will be a good day, and tonight may even be better! What brings you out into the middle of our bog, might I inquire?”

TIm squatted down, the better to talk to this mannikin.

“I’m afraid I am a victim of unjust accusations, and have been sent here for the rest of my life as punishment.”

The little man dressed all in black wagged his head back and forth in concern, and clucked his tongue.

“I am sorry to hear of your misfortune. I hope I may offer you my condolences and my company while you are here.”

Tim’s spirits perked up at hearing this. Perhaps this strange little man could help him get out of this awful place!

“I am most obliged, stranger, for your offer of companionship. My name is Tim Laughingstock.”

“And my name” said the little man dressed all in black, “is Gullet the Ghoul.” He gave another gigantic grin.

Tim quickly stood up and backed away.

“You are Gullet the Ghoul, is that what you said?” Tim asked, beginning to feel queasy.

The little man in black stepped forward, still smiling his disconcerting smile.

“Yes, that is correct. And it will be my pleasure to accompany you during your exile, your brief exile, until you are killed by a flock of slabber bats or bitten by a poisonous slither worm or just starve to death. At which point, once you start to decompose, I will sit down and enjoy a delicious meal. My, but you look tender and fairly marbled with fat!”  The little man pulled out a silver fork, knife, and spoon, and began polishing them with the loose end of his black cravat.

“But, but . . . you’re not going to try to kill me?” Tim quavered.

Gullet the Ghoul looked very offended.

“Certainly not! I am not a violent creature. Not in the least! I perform a very important but very peaceable function here in the bog. When something, or someone, dies I take care of the remains.

“Oh” said Tim, despair growing on him like the onset of a sudden chill. “So you aren’t going to help me escape from this place? You really aren’t going to be my friend at all, are you?”

“I’m going to watch you die and then I’m going to eat you up” replied Gullet complacently.

Tim stood very still at hearing this, while his heart beat very fast. And then something wonderful blossomed inside of him. Something that happens to men and women when they have been beaten down and abused until they look up to find a Bright Spirit holding their hand. They experience an inner tempering that steels them to attempt great things. This is how heroes and heroines are made. Right then and there Tim started growing into the hero of this story.

He reached down to grab Gullet by his black cravat and pulled him up until he was face to face with a very grim Tim.

“So you think you’re going to wait around until I starve, eh?” said Tim menacingly. “Well, let me tell you, Master Gullet the Ghoul, that I am not going to starve as long as I have YOU to feast on!”  Tim grabbed Gullet’s silver utensils before letting go of his cravat. Gullet dropped to the ground, and stayed there -- looking up at Tim with dawning fear and respect.

“Now, now, Master Laughingstock. You wouldn’t really do me in just for a meal -- would you? I’m rather scrawny and, and . . . just think of the rotten things I’ve been feeding off of for years! I must taste very nasty by now . . . “

Tim kneeled down to address Gullet the Ghoul.

“Don’t worry, my little snack. I’ll have a roaring fire going to roast you until you’re crisp and sweet.” Tim unwound Gullet’s cravat and quickly tied him up with it. Then he scrounged around for sticks and twigs, heaping them up next to Gullet.

“You have some excellent wood around here for a bonfire” Tim told the ghoul cheerfully.

Ghouls are sneaky and putrid creatures, but they also have a strong feeling for survival and know when the jig is up.

“Master Laughingstock -- may I call you Tim?” began Gullet in the friendliest tones he could muster. “Tim, I’m thinking that you and I got off on the wrong foot today. Why, a big strong man like you must have very important business to conduct in the outside world. It would be wrong of me to detain you here in this backwater bog. After due consideration, I’ve decided that, um, I would be most happy to guide you out of here -- completely safe and sound and free of charge. What do you say to that, Tim?”

Heroes don’t hold grudges and are humble enough to accept help quickly when it is offered. Tim untied Gullet the Ghoul and offered him a hand up.

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. The Awful Ishgobs! Seven.

Unbeknownst to the inhabitants of Boogle Hollow, the owls in Tiger Woods were fed up with being plucked off their roosts and put into pies. So they did something about it. They went to see Pan the Piper, who was a minor forest deity charged with watching out for the interests of undomesticated animals.

Pan lived in a crosspatch surrounded by dill trees and fiddle fodder in the deepest part of the woods. He refused to do any weeding, considering such work beneath a minor forest deity, and so he was constantly afflicted with poison ivy rashes and nettle stings that made him grim and moody, not to say sadly melodramatic. He welcomed the owl’s complaints as an excuse to gnash his teeth and plot revenge -- plotting was his favorite hobby.

“Ho, birds of the night!” he began, gnashing his teeth for all he was worth. “Those varlets at Boogle Hollow have been murdering your families to slake their unholy appetites, have they? I’ll make them pay for their plundummering ways!”

The owls hooted softly with pleasure; this was the kind of sword rattling they enjoyed hearing.

“My minions will descend on them for revenge!” cried Pan the Piper. “Ho, minions -- show yourselves on the instant!”

Through the fiddle fodder and dill trees and the poison ivy trooped the minions of Pan the Piper. An ugly crew of warts they were, too. Pan looked at them with something close to affection while rubbing his prickly chin.

“Who shall I send to wreak havoc?” he wondered out loud. “My bozoronies with their horned elbows? Or my snatchapots with their flaming tails? Nay, I’ll give this job to my ishgobs -- they are ripe for rampaging!”

The ishgobs jumped up and down in snarky glee. "Frump! Bump!" they gurgled. They were truly awful specimens of the nogoodnik family. A combination of slug, serpent, and curlemom, ishgobs hated anything that could count or knew how to use soap.   

“Go, my ishgobs, and destroy all the ovens in Boogle Hollow! Pinch the women. Bite the men. Put crickets in the children’s hair! Ha-ha! They’ll never bake another owl pie again! Run! Go! Scamper! Beat it, lunkheads!” Pan the Piper capered in circles on his brown goat legs and blew a shrill, discordant blast on his pipes. Slavering in anticipation, the ishgobs departed -- loping through the forest with unholy speed while they savagely crooned their war song: "Hump! Dump! Trump!"

Back in Boogle Hollow the unsuspecting people went about their daily business. It was Dunking Day, so all the housewives took their washing down to the River Plush to dunk them and lay them out on the rocks to dry. The men went to work as usual, and the town square began filling with old men and spinsters and idlers who had nothing better to do. Tim walked confidently into the middle of the square to begin his sales pitch. Stepping up on the rim of the public fountain, which was carved out of exotic banana wood to look like a sultry sorceress pouring water from a small cauldron (and Tim had to pause a moment as he looked at the fountain statue, because it bore a strikingly lovely resemblance to Svarm), Tim cleared his throat and screamed . . .

Well, it was not actually Tim who screamed -- but a woman nearby who spotted the ishgob vanguard pouring through the streets. Before anyone could react, the ishgob horde was upon the town.

They smashed down doors with their mallet-sized fists and dragged out ovens, even ones with burning wood inside them, to pull apart like wrapping paper. They dragged the children out of school -- which the children thought was wonderful, until crickets began crawling through their hair!

Ishgobs bit every man in sight on their ankles, which was annoying but not painful. Ishgobs do not have teeth -- they suck up leaf mold for sustenance.

Judge Flugle, wearing a lampshade he had hastily picked up on the way out of his chambers, was roaring at the muddled mass of people and ishgobs in the streets.

“Men! To the Armory! To arms! To arms! We’ll beat back these lumdiddles and make library paste out of ‘em!”

Vigorously kicking his way through what he mistakenly thought were lumdiddles, the Judge led a troop of hardy heroes to the Armory for swords and pikes and spears and axes. Unfortunately when they got there they found that the Armory was barren. There had been such a lot of peace around for so long that the neighbors had gone in to borrow all the weapons to till and weed their gardens -- and had then conveniently forgotten to bring anything back. The place was as empty as an upside down birdhouse. The Judge and his cohorts were reduced to kicking ishgobs as if they were bouncy balls. This was actually pretty effective, since the custom at that time was to always wear hard, hobnailed boots everywhere but to bed. Ishgobs began flying through the air, howling and holding onto their scaly rear ends.

“Grump! Rump!” growled the ishgobs, as they continued their work of oven-cracking.

And where was Tim Laughingstock during all this ruckus?  He was way up high in a defenseless muffle tree, protecting it from ishgobs with his flasks of pickled lumdiddles and his bag of gold coins. Poised to sell his life dearly if any of those awful creatures climbed the twenty feet up to him, Tim had an elegant view of the decimation caused by the ishgobs. The air was thick with the smoke of shattered ovens. The remnants of owl pies -- the last that would ever be made -- were splattered against walls and windows. Children, having gotten the crickets out of their own hair, were throwing them at each other. The women, having been pinched black and blue, were now fighting back with iron bean pots -- bouncing them off the heads of ishgobs. They made a hollow 'bwong' sound every time they connected with an ishgob noggin.

“Slump! Chump!” screamed the ishgobs in angry surprise. These townies were a tougher crowd than they had expected. After the initial shock wore off, the stout citizens of Boogle Hollow got good and mad and went after the ishgobs with everything but the outhouse door. Tim watched in relief as Judge Flugle and the other Booglians slowly drove the ishgobs back towards the woods.  

When the fighting was over and the ishgobs were fleeing back into the woods Tim thought it would be safe to come down and resume his attempts to sell pickled lumdiddles. But he had only taken a few steps towards the town square when Judge Flugle, now wearing a towering and dusty shako he had found in the Armory, grabbed him by the collar.

“Aha!” cried the Judge. “Here’s the miscreant that started all this! Bringing his violent lumdiddles into our peaceful town for ruin and riot! Constable! Take your guards and escort this criminal to the Bog of Sluggery. Make sure he is placed in the deepest, dankest, boggiest part and leave him there to perish! Hutsut, get a move on!”

“But . . . but . . . your judgeship . . . “ Tim stammered in confusion, trying to tell the Judge that he didn’t know what those things were that invaded the town, but that they were definitely not lumdiddles and he had nothing to do with them. But the Constable, who had been on his second owl pie when the ishgobs arrived, was in no mood to humor the prisoner. He stuffed his bandana into Tim’s mouth and instructed the guards to hustle their bustles and get the prisoner on the road to the Bog in jig time.

And so Tim Laughingstock found himself on his way to a doleful and dampening end.

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SPONSORED CONTENT
Which is why he should have hired the services of Boodle Hollow’s premier legal firm, Pyk and Poke. At Pyk and Poke we think of every contingency and plan out enough strategies to stymie the most astute judge and jury. We can thimblerig the statutes and bumfuzzle the precedents so our clients walk out of the court chamber as free as bedbugs. We exceedingly regret that Mr. Laughingstock did not seek us out the minute he was thrown out of Judge Fugle’s chambers -- we would have wrapped him so tightly in a cocoon of technicalities that the King himself could not have touched him.

So remember, friends, if you find yourself on the wrong side of a pot of gravel, ask for Pyk and Poke of Boogle Hollow, with offices in Battle Bug, Frisky Dell, and Mimditch, and a self-service kiosk in Mountebank.

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In Thailand the Censors are Keen

Thailand's Internet Service Provider Association (Tispa), under pressure from the government to block access to Facebook, said the social media giant will not remove illicit content until it receives proper court warrants, local media reported.

From CNBC  

In Thailand the censors are keen

To keep Facebook all but unseen.

They find URL’s

That ring alarm bells

For lese majeste or rapine.

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. Six. Owl Pie.

The next morning came, as next mornings often do in these kinds of stories, full of sunshine and birdsong and the pleasant glub-glubing of soapy water on faces. Tim Laughingstock came down the stairs with an appetite that was strong and pure -- he had slept soundly and now felt he had earned a hearty breakfast.

“What do you recommend for breakfast, my good barkeep?” he asked cheerfully as he settled into a comfortable chair in the taproom.

“The owl pies has just come out of the oven this very moment, sir” replied the barkeep.

Tim’s eyes twinkled with anticipation, and his belly gave a purr like a tabby cat’s.

“An owl pie, by all means! With a glass of Plush Water to wash it down with.” The River Plush ran through the town of Boogle Hollow, and its waters were reputed to cure the Danks and thicken a man’s resolve in the face of meteor showers. It tasted slightly sweet and had just enough grit in it to wake up the taste buds.

And the owl pies!

Boogle Hollow is famous throughout the realm for its savory, flavory owl pies. On thick oak tables throughout the land, where dedicated gnawlings gathered in great dignity, an owl pie from Boogle Hollow is considered the highlight of any banquet. Even the King and Queen in their palace far away are partial to the village’s special pie. They have relays of knights and esquires bring it to them on horseback at least once each fortnight.

Part of the secret to the pie’s enormously deserved reputation is the fact that the owls are boiled in a pot of Plush Water prior to being plucked. Then there is the massaging of the owl meat prior to cooking -- each bird is pummeled by experienced pummelers on top of a cold slab of bacon. And that same slab of bacon goes in with the owl meat right into the pie, and then into the oven for exactly one and a half hours. There are a few more specifics to making an authentic Boogle Hollow owl pie -- but they are jealously guarded by the citizens as a civic secret. And let me warn you -- this story is going to be full of secrets!

Needles to say, Tim enjoyed his hot owl pie tremendously.

But how do the owls feel about being stuck into pies to be gobbled up willus-nillus?

A Leader Like President Trump

WASHINGTON — Senate Republicans, increasingly unnerved by President Trump’s volatility and unpopularity, are starting to show signs of breaking away from him as they try to forge a more traditional Republican agenda and protect their political fortunes.

From the NYTimes

A leader like President Trump

Is easy to spurn and to dump.

It’s harder to say

“I’ll go all the way”

With such an oblivious chump!

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. Five. Before Judge Flugle.

The barkeep at the Boogle Hollow Inn was well-known and well-liked, so when he called for the Constable to take Tim into custody, it happened in the blink of an eye. Tim was hustled off to the court chambers of the Honorable Quentin Q. Flugle, an elderly judge who had let his hobby of collecting exotic headgear turn into a bizarre obsession. Judge Flugle wore a green fez with a gold tassel when the late night hearing began. A panel of twelve jurors was fetched from the Oddball Guild, the members of which stayed up all night throwing parchment airplanes out the second story window at passersby. They also liked to drop pokes filled with cobwebs on the heads of unsuspecting strollers -- and since cobwebs are so light, they always included a large rock in the sack before dropping it out the window. Their contention was that cobwebs never hurt anyone, no matter how many concussed bodies lay on the pavement in front of their Guild Hall. They enjoyed late night jury duty, since it gave them the chance to collect bundles of cobwebs from Flugle’s ancient and undusted chambers.  

Tim was brought before the Judge and the charges were read by the bailiff:  “Disorderly conduct unbecoming a patron of the taproom. Possession of lumdiddles without a license. Underage origami. Overage licorice beer drinking. Suspicion of sassafras. And the willful murder of one Mudge Mudgley, late of 23 Point Taken Street, in the township of Boogle Hollow, by the administering of lumdiddles.”

While the charges were being read Judge Flugle changed into a purple turban with a long ostrich feather sticking out of it. He glared at Tim while adjusting the turban to keep it from falling over his eyes.

“How do you plead?” he barked at Tim. “Guilty or really guilty?”

“But your judgeship I had nothing to do with that man’s predicament . . . “

At this point Mudgley’s widow began howling “Oh, how can I ever live without my beloved Mudgie! He was my sole support, and us with sixteen children and ten cats!” (She had seen the large bag of gold that Tim was clutching when he was brought in.)

Judge Flugle threw gravel around the room to restore decorum. Long ago he had used a gavel to restore order in his chambers, but he found that throwing gravel was more fun.

“Quiet, everyone!” he roared. Pulling off his turban, he quickly donned a yellow beret with a red pompom on top.

Meanwhile some of the jury began winding up cobwebs from the corners of the room, and others began surreptitiously shooting onlookers with dried roddenberries blown through hollow reeds.

“Ouch!” cried a woman who had come in the hopes of seeing the Judge put on a sun bonnet, “I think I just been bit by a lumdiddle!”

“What?” bellowed the Judge. “Have you brought those poisonous beasts into my chambers, you villain!” He threw an entire crock full of gravel at Tim, who had the presence of mind to duck just in time. The pot broke on the floor, scattering gravel everywhere.

“Your judgeship” Tim cried out, “they are all safely bottled up back at the Inn! I had no hand, none at all, in that poor man’s demise. Nobody forced him to eat that pickled lumdiddle. He did it for no reason at all, except he must be a fool.”

“My Mudgie a fool?” screamed his widow, as she beat off the bailiff to come up to face the Judge. “He was the wisest man since the willow trees started to weep! This village would not be the same if it hadn’t been for him . . “

“Yea” yelled a juror, his hair whitened with cobwebs. “There’d still be some Old Camel’s Breath for the rest of us to drink!”   

Since the Judge had no more gravel, having thrown his pot of it at Tim, he took off his beret to fling at the impudent juror. It missed him by a rod. He quickly put on a red and white striped beanie.

“Clear the chambers! Clear the chambers!” he screamed in a high and hoarse voice. “I won’t stand for any more hutsut like this! Bailiff, throw everyone out immediately!”

The bailiff and his assistants hustled everyone, including Tim, out onto the street, then banged the door shut in their faces. Resisting the urge to knock and demand sentencing, Tim made his way back to the Inn, where the barkeep welcomed him affably.

“I’ve just come for my things -- I’ll get out right away” Tim said warily.

“No hurry, sir. Nothing to worry your precious head about at all! Turns out that ten minutes after they took you away the dead man woke up and went back to home -- almost forgetting to pay his bill, until I reminded him with a tuning fork up his nose.”

“You mean, you mean the lumdiddle didn’t kill him?” Tim asked, incredulous.

“Not a bit of it, sir. In fact, he seemed rather healthier than before -- what with his cheeks as red as roses and the white in his hair disappeared and that sad limp of his gone. The fact of the matter is, good sir, I wanted to ask you for another one of them there bottled lumdiddles. See if it can help any of me other customers in a like manner.”

“Well . . . “ said Tim slowly, remembering how quickly the barkeep had wanted him put on trial just a few hours before. “I won’t give you another one -- but I’ll sell you one for a gold dinkum.”

“Fair enough” said the barkeep, rummaging through the pockets of his dirty white apron until he came up with a gold dinkum. “Here you are, sir. Just bring it down in the morning when you have breakfast -- I do trust you’re staying on?”

“Uh, for now. Yes. It’s been a confusing night, so if you don’t mind I’ll just bid you goodnight and go to my bed.”

And with that the barkeep handed Tim a candle and wished him cordial dreams.