"I tell you it's all because of the block it stands on it won't boil without it," said Peik.
"Well, what did he want for it?" It was well worth three hundred dollars; but for the King's sake it should go for two. So he got the block and travelled home with it, and bade guests again, and made a feast, and set the pot on the chopping-block in the middle of the room. The guests thought he was both daft and mad, and they went about making game of him, while he cackled and chattered round the pot, calling out, "Bide a bit! now it boils! now it boils in a trice."
But it wouldn't boil a bit more on the block than on the bare floor. So he saw again that Peik had been out with his fooling rods this time too. Then he fell a-tearing his hair, and swore he would set off at once and slay him. He wouldn't spare him this time, whether he put a good or a bad face on it.
But Peik had taken steps to meet him again. He slaughtered a wether and caught the blood in the bladder, and stuffed it into his sister's bosom, and told her what to say and do.
"Where's Peik!" screeched out the King. He was in such a rage that his tongue faltered.
"He is so poorly that he can't stir hand or foot," she said, "and now he's trying to get a nap."
"Wake him up," said the King.
"Nay, I daren't; he is so hasty," said the sister.
"Well! I'm hastier still," said the King, "and if you don't wake him, I will," and with that he tapped his side where his knife hung.
"Well! she would go and wake him;" but Peik turned hastily in his bed, drew out a little knife, and
