The major first turned pale and then grew red in the face. "That settles it," he said, throwing off his coat. "That is a deadly insult, and there is now no possible way to avoid a duel." "I am ready for you at any time," said the sprite, calmly. "Only as the challenged party I have the choice of weapons, and inasmuch as this is a hot day, I choose the jawbone." "Not a talking match, I hope?" said the major, with a gesture of impatience. "Not at all," replied the sprite. "A story-telling contest. We will withdraw to that moss-covered rock underneath the trees in there, gather enough huckleberries and birch bark for our luncheon, and catch a mess of trout from the brook to go with them, and then we can fight our duel all the rest of the afternoon." "But how's that going to satisfy my wounded honor?" asked the major. "I'll tell one story," said the sprite, "and you'll tell another, and when we are through, the one that Jimmieboy says has told the best story will be the victor. That is better than trying to hurt each other, I think." "I think so too," put in Jimmieboy. "I'm ready for it." "Well, it isn't a bad scheme," agreed the major. "Particularly the luncheon part of it; so you may count on me. I've got a story that will lift your hair right off your head." So Jimmieboy and his two strange friends retired into the wood, gathered the huckleberries and birch bark, caught, cooked, and ate the trout, and then sat down together on the moss-covered rock to fight the duel. The two fighters drew lots to find out which should tell the first story, and as the sprite was the winner, he began. And the story he told was as follows. CHAPTER IX. THE SPRITE'S STORY. "When I was not more than a thousand years old--" said the sprite. "Excuse me," interrupted the major. "But what was the figure?" "One thousand," returned the sprite. "That was nine thousand years ago--before this world was made. I celebrated my ten-thousand-and-sixteenth birthday last Friday--but that has nothing to do with my story. When I was not more than a thousand years of age, my parents, who occupied a small star about forty million miles from here, finding that my father could earn a better living if he were located nearer the moon, moved away from my birthplace and rented a good-sized, four-pronged star in the suburbs of the great orb of night. In the old star we were too far away from the markets for my father to sell the products of his farm for anything like what they cost him; freight charges were very heavy, and often the stage-coach that ran between Twinkleville and the moon would not stop at Twinkleville at all, and then all the stuff that we had raised that week would get stale, lose its fizz, and have to be thrown away." "Let me beg your pardon again," put in the major. "But what did you raise on your farm? I never heard of farm products having fizz to lose."