To the east Cugel gave only a cursory glance. Here were the villages Smolod and Grodz, and memories were long in the Land of Cutz.

To the south, languid and listless, the ocean extended to the horizon and beyond.

To the west, the shore stretched far to meet a line of low hills which, thrusting into the sea, became a headland … A red glitter flashed across the distance, and Cugel’s attention was instantly attracted.

Such a red sparkle could only signify sunlight reflecting from glass!

Cugel marked the position of the glitter, which faded from view as the sunlight shifted. He slid down the face of the dune and set off at best speed along the beach.

The sun dropped behind the headland; gray-lavender gloom fell across the beach. An arm of that vast forest known as the Great Erm edged down from the north, suggesting a number of eery possibilities, and Cugel accelerated his pace to a striding bent-kneed lope.

The hills loomed black against the sky, but no sign of habitation appeared. Cugel’s spirits sagged low. He proceeded more slowly, searching the landscape with care, and at last, to his great satisfaction, he came upon a large and elaborate manse of archaic design, shrouded behind the trees of an untidy garden. The lower windows glowed with amber light: a cheerful sight for the benighted wanderer.

Cugel turned briskly aside and approached the manse, putting by his usual precautions of surveillance and perhaps peering through the windows, especially in view of two white shapes at the edge of the forest which quietly moved back into the shadows as he turned to stare.

Cugel marched to the door and tugged smartly at the bell-chain. From within came the sound of a far gong.

A moment passed. Cugel looked nervously over his shoulder, and again pulled at the chain. Finally he heard slow steps approaching from within.

The door opened and a pinch-faced old man, thin, pale, and stoop-shouldered, looked through the crack.

Cugel used the suave tones of gentility. “Good evening! What is this handsome old place, may I ask?”

The old man responded without cordiality: “Sir, this is Flutic, where Master Twango keeps residence. What is your business?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” said Cugel airily. “I am a traveler, and I seem to have lost my way. I will therefore trespass upon Master Twango’s hospitality for the night, if I may.”

“Quite impossible. From which direction do you come?”

“From the east.”

“Then continue along the road, through the forest and over the hill, to Saskervoy. You will find lodging to meet your needs at the Inn of Blue Lamps.”

“It is too far, and in any event robbers have stolen my money.”

“You will find small comfort here; Master Twango gives short shrift to indigents.” The old man started to close the door, but Cugel put his foot into the aperture.

“Wait! I noticed two white shapes at the edge of the forest, and I dare go no farther tonight!”

“In this regard, I can advise you,” said the old man. “The creatures are probably rostgoblers, or ‘hyperborean sloths’, if you prefer the term. Return to the beach and wade ten feet into the water; you will be safe from their lust. Then tomorrow you may proceed to Saskervoy.”

The door closed. Cugel looked anxiously over his shoulder. At the entrance to the garden, where heavy yews flanked the walk, he glimpsed a pair of still white forms. Cugel turned back to the door and jerked hard at the bell-chain.

Slow steps padded across the floor, and once again the door opened. The old man looked out. “Sir?”

“The ghouls are now in the garden! They block the way to the beach!”

The old man opened his mouth to speak, then blinked as a new concept entered his mind. He tilted his head and spoke craftily: “You have no funds?”

“I carry not so much as a groat.”

“Well then; are you disposed toward employment?”

“Certainly, if I survive the night!”

“In that case, you are in luck! Master Twango can offer employment to a willing worker.” The old man threw open the door and Cugel gratefully entered the manse.

With an almost exuberant flourish the old man closed the door. “Come, I will take you to Master Twango, and you can discuss the particulars of your employment. How do you choose to be announced?”

“I am Cugel.”

“This way then! You will be pleased with the opportunities! … Are you coming? At Flutic we are brisk!”

Despite all, Cugel held back. “Tell me something of the employment! I am, after all, a person of quality, and I do not turn my hand to everything.”

“No fear! Master Twango will accord you every distinction. Ah, Cugel, you will be a happy man! If only I were young again! This way, if you please.”

Cugel still held back. “First things first! I am tired and somewhat the worse for travel. Before I confer with Master Twango I would like to refresh myself and perhaps take a bite or two of nourishment. In fact, let us wait until tomorrow morning, when I will make a far better impression.”

The old man demurred. “At Flutic all is exact, and every jot balances against a corresponding tittle. To whose account would I charge your refreshment? To Gark? To Gookin? To Master Twango himself? Absurd. Inevitably the consumption would fall against the account of Weamish, which is to say, myself. Never! My account at last is clear, and I propose to retire.”

“I understand nothing of this,” grumbled Cugel.

“Ah, but you will! Come now: to Twango!”

With poor grace Cugel followed Weamish into a chamber of many shelves and cases: a repository of curios, to judge by the articles on display.

“Wait here a single moment!” said Weamish and hopped on spindly legs from the room.

Cugel walked here and there, inspecting the curios and estimating their value. Strange to find such objects in a place so remote! He bent to examine a pair of small quasi-human grotesques rendered in exact detail. Craftsmanship at its most superb! thought Cugel.

Weamish returned. “Twango will see you shortly. Meanwhile he offers for your personal regalement this cup of vervain tea, together with these two nutritious wafers, at no charge.”

Cugel drank the tea and devoured the wafers. “Twango’s act of hospitality, though largely symbolic, does him credit.” He indicated the cabinets. “All this is Twango’s personal collection?”

“Just so. Before his present occupation he dealt widely in such goods.”

“His tastes are bizarre, even peculiar.”

Weamish raised his white eyebrows. “As to that I cannot say. It all seems ordinary enough to me.”

“Not really,” said Cugel. He indicated the pair of grotesques. “For instance, I have seldom seen objects so studiously repulsive as this pair of bibelots. Skillfully done, agreed! Notice the detail in these horrid little ears! The snouts, the fangs: the malignance is almost real! Still, they are undeniably the work of a diseased imagination.”

The objects reared erect. One of them spoke in a rasping voice: “No doubt Cugel has good reason for his unkind words; still, neither Gark nor I can take them lightly.”

The other also spoke: “Such remarks carry a sting! Cugel has a feckless tongue.” Both bounded from the room.

Weamish spoke in reproach. “You have offended both Gark and Gookin, who came only to guard Twango’s valuables from pilferage. But what is done is done. Come; we will go to Master Twango.”