I've got to catch the four-fifteen from Chalk Farm station."
"But she didn't," I persisted obstinately. "She married the Dragon
and lived happy ever afterwards."
Hocker adopted sterner measures. He seized my arm and twisted it
behind me.
"She married who?" demanded Hocker: grammar was not Hocker's strong
point.
"The Dragon," I growled.
"She married who?" repeated Hocker.
"The Dragon," I whined.
"She married who?" for the third time urged Hocker.
Hocker was strong, and the tears were forcing themselves into my eyes
in spite of me. So the Princess in return for healing the Dragon
made it promise to reform. It went back with her to the Prince, and
made itself generally useful to both of them for the rest of the
tour. And the Prince took the Princess home with him and married
her; and the Dragon died and was buried. The others liked the story
better, but I hated it; and the wind sighed and died away.
The little crowd becomes the reading public, and Hocker grows into an
editor; he twists my arm in other ways. Some are brave, so the crowd
kicks them and scurries off to catch the four-fifteen. But most of
us, I fear, are slaves to Hocker. Then, after awhile, the wind grows
sulky and will not tell us stories any more, and we have to make them
up out of our own heads. Perhaps it is just as well. What were
doors and windows made for but to keep out the wind.
He is a dangerous fellow, this wandering Wind; he leads me astray.
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