THE COMPACT WITH
VULCAN

Over the sea Dragonfel the enchanter waited with increasing impatience for the Human Octopus to return with whatever information he might glean in his prowling, sneaking manner. When his grotesque emissary did not put in a prompt appearance he grew more surly and ill-humored than ever. He vented his rage upon the poor little mine-sprites by increasing their working-hours and decreasing their allowance of carrot-tops and potato-skins.

Whenever he spoke to his followers their knees knocked together with fright. At no time was he gentle, but when he was particularly violent, which was nearly always, he was a very bad person who could be well avoided.

So he became even crankier and crosser-grained than ever, till all around him quaked with fear. He wondered why the Human Octopus did not come back, and his inexplicable delay filled him with ungovernable fury.

“He’s not attending to business,” he said, grinding his teeth with rage. “Instead of snooping he’s just going around, and having a good time. But wait till he gets back, and I’ll show him!” As he spoke these words he happened to be in his throne room, and he went to the open window to look out.

It was a wild, terrible night, but the worse the weather was the more Dragonfel liked it.

The lightning zig-zagged all over the inky black sky, the thunder roared, the wind howled, and the rain beat down in slanting torrents.

“Vulcan must have some little job on hand,” Dragonfel pondered, as he returned to his throne.

Scarcely had he done so when there came a sudden fierce gust of wind that blew the Red Spirit through the window right to his very feet where he cringed and grovelled and fawned in the most abject manner.

“How now, you rogue?” roared Dragonfel above the storm. “Where have you been, and what has kept you? Why have you not returned as you went? Answer, villain, or it will go hard with you! I will have you strung up by the finger-tips till your toes barely touch the ground and beaten by a thousand and one whips!”

“Oh, master, kind master,” gasped the Red Spirit, trying to catch his breath, “wonderful things have I seen, and wonderful things have I to tell you. So incredible are they that you may not believe me, yet I do assure you most positively that what I am about to relate is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I would never have believed them myself had I not seen them with my own eyes.”

“Omit all this long, unnecessary preamble,” growled Dragonfel, in great disgust, “and get down to hard facts. What have you discovered?”

“The Brownie prince is to wed the fairy queen!”

Dragonfel’s face went from scarlet to white, then from white to scarlet, then back to white, and then to scarlet again, just like the flashing of a vari-colored electric sign.

“How do you know?” he asked, trying to control his temper. “Who told you?”

“No one,” said the trembling Red Spirit. “I saw him place an engagement-ring on her finger.”

“Well,” declared Dragonfel, in a tone of the utmost brutality, “if they are planning to get married all I’ve got to say is they’ve got another guess coming!”

“Who will prevent the marriage, kind master?”

“I will prevent it!” irascibly shouted the enchanter, and he clapped his hands together in an imperious way. “What ho, without there! Here’s a pretty kettle of fish! Come hither instantly!”

Grouthead, Mandrake, Boundingbore, Wolfinger, Snoutpimple, and others were out in an ante-room, and they almost tumbled over each other in their frantic haste to answer the peremptory summons.

“Put on your storm-cloaks immediately,” ordered Dragonfel. “I want you to come with me to Vulcan’s.”

“It’s a terrible night to be out, kind master,” ventured Grouthead, with a shudder.

There came a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder more terrifying than any that had gone before.

“What’s the matter with the night?” snapped Dragonfel. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. I call this particularly pleasant weather.”

“Yes, it’s all right now,” Grouthead hastened to say.

So in their long, flowing cloaks they all sloshed out in the wind and rain, while the hearts of those who followed after the enchanter quaked and quailed as they plunged on through the pitch-black darkness of the night.

The wind howled and shrieked with increasing fury, the lightning grew sharper, and the peals of thunder more deafening, so that their eyes were nearly blinded, and their ear-drums rang.

Now not so very far from Dragonfel’s palace Vulcan whom they had set forth to see had his cavern.

It was a very modest establishment indeed, considering the prodigious results that he achieved, and the wonder was that in such cramped quarters, and with so few to aid him in his work, he could do as much as he did.

The cavern was down by the sea, in among huge rocks and boulders, and over the door, in very modest lettering, was the business sign: Vulcan God of Fire.

Inside was a forge with bellows such as any country blacksmith has, and here Vulcan manufactured earthquakes and volcanos at will.

He could create seismic disturbances all over the world, in a trice throw Vesuvius into hysterical contraptions, or make things suddenly red-hot in Mexico or the British Honduras. His wares were known in every quarter of the globe, and he didn’t even so much as advertise.

On this particular night he stood as usual at his forge—a great big, husky, bearded fellow in a red flannel undershirt bared at his brawny, hairy chest, and with sleeves rolled almost up to his shoulders to give the tremendous muscles of his arms full play.

He wore a round leather cap and had on a leather apron tied to his burly waist by leather thongs. Things needed touching up a bit, and he was getting busy.

“Where are those lazy ’prentices of mine?” he roared, in rumbling tones, as he pumped the bellows, while the flames in the forge leaped higher and higher. “Spry, Flash, Nimble, Twist, and the rest of you—where are you, I say? Has my voice grown so weak, you rogues, that you cannot hear me? Come hither this instant!”

From all directions in response to the angry summons came imps in red attire that fitted their lithe, supple bodies as snugly as the skins of eels.

They somersaulted down the chimney, popped up like jack-in-th’-boxes from the earthen floor, and described parabolas through the air from the cavern’s ceiling, grouping themselves humbly on their knees before their irate master, with their arms supplicatingly extended.

“Here at last, are you?” again roared Vulcan. “And none too soon, either! Where have you been, imps? Idling your time away? Quick! heap coals on, all of you, or the fire will be out!”

Forthwith they flung balls of living fire into the forge, and, as Vulcan pumped away at the bellows, he burst out in lusty song:

The lightning flashed, the thunder crashed, and over all the storm was heard a voice calling: “Vul-can! Vul-can!”

Vulcan stopped work while his imps crept stealthily toward the door to listen.

“Is Vulcan at his forge?” was shouted in the wind and rain outside, with the accompaniment of a terrific knock on the door.

“Yes,” Dragonfel went on. “We’re going to the wedding, gain their confidence with fine presents, and then—”

“Yes,” said Vulcan, very much interested. “And then—?”

Dragonfel leaned over and whispered something in Vulcan’s ear which caused him to start back in surprise. “No!” he involuntarily exclaimed. “Do you think you can do it?” If Florimel and Titania could have heard the diabolical plan of the enchanter all the happiness would have vanished from their hearts.