“We’ll do it yet!” said the Bowler. “Only forty-six more! Never give up! Keep everlastingly at it, that’s my motto!” And he ran after the ball, set up the pins, and ran back, ready to throw again. “If he has eyebrows,” said he, panting and wiping his forehead, “he must have a will of his own; and it must be a good will, or else he wouldn’t have been kind to you.” He rolled the ball again, knocking down only six. “Better luck next time!” he cried, and darted up the alley. “Never say die, and keep everlastingly at it, that’s the motto!” “My boy,” said I, “I beg you to trust me, and to tell me who you are, and why--” “A strike!” cried the Blind Bowler. “Only forty-five to make by midnight! Trust him, Figli! His voice is honest. I think he is the one we have been waiting for. Trust him!” “It’s hard for me to tell you,” said the boy, “it’s too--” “I’ll tell you!” cried the Blind Bowler, running down the alley. “His name is Figli Babadag. Does that tell you everything?” “No, nothing,” said I. “Eight down that time!” cried the Bowler. “Never say die! He’s the son of Babadag the Tailor. Now do you know?” “No,” said I. “Then I must tell you,” said the Blind Bowler. “It is Babadag who rules the city; don’t you know that? Master of black secrets is Babadag, and lord of the Eyebrow; and his anger is terrible. He has put the golden chain about the Governor’s neck and shut him up in the Cobweb Room. He has drawn the wills from out of the brains of all our people, by plucking out their eyebrows, so that in all the city there are but two wills only, one bad and one good: the will of Babadag and the will of his little son. Nine down that time! Never give up!” “Oh!” cried Figli. “I want my father to be good! I want him to be poor and good like the others! If I could only make him good!” “Only one way to do that!” said the Blind Bowler, halfway down the alley. “He is lord of the Eyebrow, and in the Eyebrow lies his power. But the hairs of his eyebrows are no ordinary hairs; they are of the family of gray snakes that live in the lake Siskratoum, and there is no one to cut them, even if there were a blade sharp enough; and they must be cut by the hand of love, and there is no one here that loves him, but his son. There is not one but trembles at his name, and even at the name of Figli his son;--there is scarcely one who dares brush against the boy in the street, for fear of what power may lie in the eyebrows of the boy, and for fear of his father’s malice.” “They won’t speak to me!” cried Figli. “They’re afraid of me! And I’ve done them no harm! I only want to be friends with them!” “You see he’s all alone. He hates his riches; he wants to be poor and simple, like the others.” “And what about yourself?” said I. “Ah!” cried the Blind Bowler. “Only six down that time! Not so easy, when you’ve no eyes to see with! But keep everlastingly at it, that’s the word! What did you say?” “What about yourself?” said I.