hen Babo came the next
morning the king gave him ten chests full of money, and that made the
simpleton richer than anybody in all that land.

He built himself a fine house, and by-and-by married the daughter of the
new councillor that came after the other one's head had been chopped off
for conspiring against the king's life. Besides that, he came and went
about the king's castle as he pleased, and the king made much of him.
Everybody bowed to him, and all were glad to stop and chat awhile with
him when they met him in the street.

One morning Babo looked out of the window, and who should he see come
travelling along the road but Simon Agricola himself, and he was just as
poor and dusty and travel-stained as ever.

"Come in, come in!" said Babo; and you can guess how the wise man stared
when he saw the simpleton living in such a fine way. But he opened his
eyes wider than ever when he heard that all these good things came from
the piece of advice he had given Babo that day they had parted at the
cross roads.

"Aye, aye!" said he, "the luck is with you for sure and certain. But
if you will pay me a thousand golden angels, I will give you something
better than a piece of advice. I will teach you all the magic that is to
be learned from the books."

"No," said Babo, "I am satisfied with the advice."

"Very well," said Simon Agricola, "Born a fool, live a fool, die a
fool';" and off he went in a huff.

That is all of this tale except the tip end of it, and that I will give
you now.

I have heard tell that one day the king dropped in the street the piece
of advice that he had bought from Babo, and that before he found it
again it had been trampled into the mud and dirt. I cannot say for
certain that this is the truth, but it must have been spoiled in some
way or other, for I have never heard of anybody in these days who would
give even so much as a bad penny for it; and yet it is worth just as
much now as it was when Babo sold it to the king.

I had sat listening to these jolly folk for all this time, and I had not
heard old Sindbad say a word, and yet I knew very well he was full of
a story, for every now and then I could see his lips move, and he would
smile, and anon he would stroke his long white beard and smile again.

Everybody clapped their hands and rattled their canicans after the
Blacksmith had ended his story, and methought they liked it better
than almost anything that had been told. Then there was