‘till I get an hide in time, and then a good farm, and then poor Jane ſhall have a new gown.’
He had not got quite ſo far with his projects, as to ſpurn the grand vizier’s daughter, like his predeceſſor Alnaſchar, when Number-Nip ſent forth his roaring whirlwind, and overſet the log with ſuch violence, that all the brittle contents of the baſket were broken into a thouſand fragments. This was a thunder-ſtroke to poor Stephen, whoſe ears were at the ſame inſtant ſaluted by a loud horſe-laugh at a diſtance, if it was not fancy, or the echo of the craſh of broken glaſs: he gueſſed it was ſome fairy’s prank, for the violent guſt of wind had the appearance of ſomething ſupernatural, and when he came to look carefully about him, log and branches had all diſappeared; he had no difficulty in gueſſing who was the author of the miſchief. ‘Scoundrel Number-Nip!’ he cried, ‘thou envious and wicked ſprite! What have I done, that thou ſhouldſt
