s, and began to purr like a
nestful of Nikkanakkas.

The Gunga stared, too, snapped his great jaws, coughed, then beat with
his warty fist on his great breast. "Ohe, ohe!" he said. "I meant no
evil to the Mulla-mulgar. Princes of Tishnar journey not often past old
Gunga's house. I hutch alone, far from my own country, Royal Stranger,
with only my black-man's Bobberie for friend."

Nod, when he heard this, almost laughed out. "Not now, 'Prince of
Bonfires,' nor 'Noddle of Pork,'" he thought, "but 'Royal Stranger,' and
'Prince of Tishnar.'"

"Why, then," he said aloud to the Gunga, "tongues chatter best when they
have something good to say. I'll take a platter of soup with you, Friend
of Fishes. And better still, I'll dry my magic coat." He slipped out of
his dripping jacket, and spread it out in front of the fire, and there
he sat, slim and silky, in his little cotton-leaf breeches, scratching
Puss's head and pretending himself at home. But the old Fish-catcher's
bloodshot eyes were watching--watching all the time. He was thinking
what snug and beautiful breeches that sheep's-coat would make him this
icy weather. But he thought, too, it would be best to speak civilly and
smoothly to his visitor--at least, for the present. Not even a
Gunga-mulgar cares to quarrel with peaceful Tishnar.

"Make yourself easy, Traveller," he said, nodding his peaked head with a
hideous smile. "The moon was at hide-and-seek when I found you in the
water; I could not see your royal countenance. But Simmul, she knows
best." The old Burbhrie cat turned to her master at sound of her name,
put up her tufted paw towards Nod, and mewed.

"Ohe, ohe!" said the Gunga mournfully. "She's mewing 'Magic.' And what
knows a feeble old Fish-catcher of Magic?" He poured out some soup into
a bowl, put in a skewer, and handed it to Nod.

"I will hang the Royal Stranger's beautiful sheep's-coat on a hook," he
said slyly. "There it will dry much quicker."

But Nod guessed easily what he was after. Once hung up there, how was he
ever going to reach his jacket down again? "No, no," says he; "it's
nearly dry already."

He took the gourd of soup between his knees. It tasted strong of fish,
and was green with a satiny river-weed; but it was hot and sweetish, and
he supped it up greedily. And just as he was tilting the bowl for the
last mouthful he looked up and saw Thumb's round, astonished face
staring in at the little dark window. He put down his gourd and b