“O deary, deary me,” moaned the dragon; “this is too awful. I won't see him, and that's flat. I don't want to know the fellow at all. I'm sure he's not nice. You must tell him to go away at once, please. Say he can write if he likes, but I can't give him an interview. I'm not seeing anybody at present.” “Now dragon, dragon,” said the Boy imploringly, “don't be perverse and wrongheaded. You've GOT to fight him some time or other, you know, 'cos he's St. George and you're the dragon. Better get it over, and then we can go on with the sonnets. And you ought to consider other people a little, too. If it's been dull up here for you, think how dull it's been for me!” “My dear little man,” said the dragon solemnly, “just understand, once for all, that I can't fight and I won't fight. I've never fought in my life, and I'm not going to begin now, just to give you a Roman holiday. In old days I always let the other fellows--the EARNEST fellows--do all the fighting, and no doubt that's why I have the pleasure of being here now.” “But if you don't fight he'll cut your head off!” gasped the Boy, miserable at the prospect of losing both his fight and his friend. “Oh, I think not,” said the dragon in his lazy way. “You'll be able to arrange something. I've every confidence in you, you're such a MANAGER. Just run down, there's a dear chap, and make it all right. I leave it entirely to you.” The Boy made his way back to the village in a state of great despondency. First of all, there wasn't going to be any fight; next, his dear and honoured friend the dragon hadn't shown up in quite such a heroic light as he would have liked; and lastly, whether the dragon was a hero at heart or not, it made no difference, for St. George would most undoubtedly cut his head off. “Arrange things indeed!” he said bitterly to himself. “The dragon treats the whole affair as if it was an invitation to tea and croquet.” The villagers were straggling homewards as he passed up the street, all of them in the highest spirits, and gleefully discussing the splendid fight that was in store. The Boy pursued his way to the inn, and passed into the principal chamber, where St. George now sat alone, musing over the chances of the fight, and the sad stories of rapine and of wrong that had so lately been poured into his sympathetic ears. “May I come in, St. George?” said the Boy politely, as he paused at the door. “I want to talk to you about this little matter of the dragon, if you're not tired of it by this time.” “Yes, come in, Boy,” said the Saint kindly. “Another tale of misery and wrong, I fear me. Is it a kind parent, then, of whom the tyrant has bereft you? Or some tender sister or brother? Well, it shall soon be avenged.” “Nothing of the sort,” said the Boy. “There's a misunderstanding somewhere, and I want to put it right. The fact is, this is a GOOD dragon.”