Thus had we often entertained ourselves, and, to my shame be it confessed, I behaved the worst--often catching him by the cloak, and once I trod on the heel of his slipper so that he fell down. This struck me as a very funny thing, but the laugh stuck in my throat as I saw him go to my father's house. He went right in and remained there for some time. I hid myself near the front door, and saw Little Muck come out again, accompanied by my father, who held his hand and parted from him on the door-step with many bows. Not feeling very easy in my mind, I remained for a long time in my hiding place; but I was at last driven out by hunger, which I feared worse than a whipping, and, spiritless and with bowed head, I went home to my father. "I hear that you have been insulting the good Little Muck," said he, in a grave tone. "I will tell you the story of Little Muck, and you will certainly not want to laugh at him again; but before I begin, and after I am through, you will receive '_the customary_.'" Now "the customary" consisted of twenty-five blows, which he was accustomed to lay on without making any mistake in the count. He took for this purpose the long stem of a cherry pipe, unscrewing the amber mouth-piece, and belaboring me harder than ever before. When the five-and-twenty strokes were completed, he commanded me to pay attention, and told me the story of Little Muck. The father of Little Muck--whose proper name was Mukrah--was a poor but respectable man, living here in Nicæa. He lived nearly as solitary a life as his son now does. This son he could not endure, as he was ashamed of his dwarfish shape, and he therefore allowed him to grow up in ignorance. Little Muck, though in his sixteenth year, was only a child; and his father continually scolded him, because he who should have long since "put away childish things," still remained so stupid and silly.