It was away down in the underground caves, and beneath the roaring waters of the rivers, and deep in the hearts of the mountains that these dwarf workmen dwelt, and worked their smithies, and spun their gold and brass.

“Make me a crown of gold for Sif the wife of Thor,” snarled Loke, bursting in upon the workshop of the dwarfs.

The dwarfs were ugly little creatures, with crooked legs, and crooked backs. Their eyes were black, wicked little beads of eyes, and their hearts were malicious and sometimes cruel. But they were the willing and ready slaves of the gods; and so, at even this ill-natured command from Loke, they set themselves to work.

The coals burned and blazed; the forges puffed and blew; the little workmen moulded and turned and spun their gold. Hardly had the Sun-god lifted his head above the castles of the frost giants, hardly had his light fallen upon the rich colors of the rainbow bridge, when Loke came forth from the underground caves, the shining crown in his hand.

Quickly he rose high in the air and stood before the gates of the city.

“Have you brought the crown?” thundered Thor from within the gates.

“I have brought the crown,” answered Loke in triumph. “And more than that,” added he, when the gates had been opened to him, “I have brought as gifts from the dwarfs, a ship that will sail on land or sea and a spear that never fails. O there are no such workmen among any dwarfs as these who made the spear, the ship and the crown.”

“You boast of what you do not know,” croaked Brok, a little dwarf who stood near by.

“Who says I do not know?” cried Loke, turning sharply.

“I say you do not know,” croaked the little dwarf again, his beadlike eyes snapping angrily, his whole crooked frame quivering with rage. “I have a brother, a workman in brass and gold, who can make gifts more pleasing to the gods than any you have brought.”

Loke looked down upon the little dwarf in scorn. “Go to your brother,” he sneered, “and bring to us the wonderful things you think he can make. Bring us one gift more wonderful than these I have, or more acceptable to Odin and Thor, and I will give your brother my head to pay him for his efforts.” Then Loke roared with laughter, believing that he had made a rare, rich joke.

Hardly had the roars of laughter died away, when Brok, gliding down the rainbow bridge with a swiftness equalled only by the lightning, sprang into Midgard, and was making his way towards the great mountain, beneath which worked the forges of his brother, the master-workman—Sindre.

“Some one cometh,” said the dwarfs, pausing in their work to listen, their busy hammers in mid-air.

“Fear not,” answered Brok, his harsh voice echoing down the great halls. “It is I—Brok—and I come to demand of you that now, if never again, you do your best; for Loke boasts to the gods of Asgard that no dwarfs in all the caverns of the under-world can make one gift more wonderful or more acceptable to Odin than those he brings—a crown of gold, a ship that will sail on land or sea, and a spear that never fails!”

A terrible roar burst forth from the hosts of angry dwarfs. “We will see! We will see!” they thundered. And seizing their hammers they set to work. The great forges blazed. The sparks flew. The smoke poured forth from the mountain top. Loke, looking out from the shining city, trembled. Well did he know the workmanship of these dwarfs of Brok; and well did he know how rash had been his scornful promise to the angry little dwarf.

“We will make a hammer for Thor,” said Sindre, the greatest among the workmen in this under world; “a hammer, that when thrown from his mighty hand, shall ring through all the heavens. A trail of fire shall follow it. Its aim shall never fail; and it shall carry death and destruction wherever it falls.

“Blow thou the bellows, Brok; and I myself will mould the hammer from the red hot iron.”

With Brok at the bellows, the very mountain rocked, and Midgard for miles about was ablaze with the blaze of light from the mountain top.

“This shall not be,” snarled Loke. And rushing down from Asgard he crouched outside the great, black cave to listen.

“A hammer for Thor!” Those were the words he heard. The ugly face grew uglier. An instant, and there was no Loke at the cavern mouth; but instead, a poisonous, stinging gadfly, whose green back glistened, and whose shining wings buzzed and hummed with cruelty and revenge. There was a hard, ringing tone of defiance in their singing, and the tone was like that of the voice of Loke himself.

“You shall drop the bellows,” buzzed the gadfly bitterly, as it alighted upon the neck of Brok.

It was a cruel sting; and its poison forced, even from the sturdy Brok, a cry of pain.

“I know you. It is Loke,” he cried; “but I will not drop the bellows though you sting me through and through and with a thousand stings!”

The gadfly buzzed with rage. Straight towards the hand upon the bellows it darted. Brok groaned again. His face grew pale; he quivered with the pain; still he held the mighty bellows and worked the roaring forge.

“You will not!” hissed the gadfly; and again it drove its poison sting, this time straight between the eyes of the suffering dwarf. And now Brok staggered. His hands relaxed their hold. Blinded with pain, he dropped the bellows. The blood ran down his face. The gadfly still hummed and buzzed.

“You have nearly spoiled it,” cried Sindre. “Why did you drop the bellows? See how short the handle is! And how rough! But it cannot be helped now; nor will its terror be any less to Loke. Ha, ha, I would have made it handsome; but there is a power in it that shall make even the gods tremble in all the ages to come. Hurry away with it, and place it in Thor’s mighty hands. And here are other gifts. Take them all, and bring me Loke’s head. He has promised. Surely even he must keep his word, wicked and deceitful though he is.”

Brok seized the hammer, and, with the gifts, hurried up through the dark cavern, out into the light of Midgard, up the rainbow bridge, and, with triumph in his swarthy face, sprang into the presence of the great god Odin.

Loke roared with laughter at the sight of the awkward, clumsy hammer; but there was a proud, confident look in the dwarf’s shining eyes that Loke did not like; and, coward that he was, his heart began already to fail him.

“Let us see the gifts,” said Odin, “that we may judge which workman among the dwarfs has proved himself most wonderful.”

“First of all,” said Loke, coming forward, “Here is the golden crown for Sif.”

Eagerly Thor seized the crown, and placed it upon poor Sif’s head.

“Wonderful! wonderful!” cried all the gods, for straightway the golden hair began to grow to Sif’s head, and in a second it was as if her golden locks had never been stolen from her.

“To you, O Odin,” said the dwarf, now coming forward, “I give this ring of gold. It is a magic ring; and each night it will cast off from itself another ring, as pure and as heavy, as round and as large as itself.”

“What is that,” sneered Loke, “compared with this? See, O Father Odin, I bring you a magic spear. Accept this, my second gift. It is a magic spear that never fails.”

“But behold my second gift,” interrupted Brok. “It is a boar of wonderful strength. It, too, is magic. No horse can run, no bird can fly with such speed. It travels both on land and sea; and in the night its bristles shine with such a light, that it matters not how dense the blackness, the forest or the plain will be as bright as noonday.”

“I, too, have a gift that will travel on land or sea,” cried Loke, pushing himself forward again. “See, it is a ship. And not only will it travel on land or sea, but it can lift itself and sail like a bird above the clouds and through the air.”

“It will be hard indeed to say which gift is greatest,” said Odin kindly.

“Look now, O, Odin, and Frigg and Thor and Sif and all the gods, at this the last of my three gifts. This hammer, O Thor, I bring to you, the god of thunder. Strike with it, and your thunders shall echo and re-echo from cloud to cloud as never they were heard before. Thrown into the air or at a foe, like Loke’s spear, it shall never miss its aim; but, more than that, it shall return always to the hand of Thor. No foe can conceal it, no foe can destroy it. It will never fail thee, O Thor, thou god of thunder.”

“But what a clumsy handle,” sneered Loke, who already began to fear the hammer was to win the favor of the gods.

“Yes,” answered Brok, “the handle is clumsy and it is short. But none knows better than you why it is so.”

Loke colored and moved uneasily. “Do not think,” continued Brok, “that I do not know it was you who sent the poisonous gadfly to sting and bite me as I worked at the blazing forge, pounding out the brass and gold from which this hammer is made.

“You thought to pain me into giving up this contest, you coward! you evil one! you boaster!

“When the handle was welded just so far, you drove the gadfly into my eye. I could not see to finish the work; but although the handle is short and clumsy, the magic power is there, and with it in his hand, no power in earth or among the frost giants even can overcome our great god Thor.”

A ringing shout of joy arose from the gods. Thor swung his hammer over his head and threw it far out against the clouds. The thunder rolled, the clouds filled with blackness, and the lightnings flashed, as the magic hammer, humming through the air, came back to the hands of Thor.

“Now give me my wager,” cried Brok. “I was promised the head of Loke.”

“Take it,” laughed Loke. “Take it.”

Brok drew near. “I will take it,” he hissed through his set teeth; “and a rich day will it be both in Midgard and in Asgard when your miserable head is bound down in the home of the dwarfs of the underground world.”

“But halt,” commanded Loke. “My head you may have; but you must not touch my neck. One drop of blood from that, and you forfeit your life.”

Brok stood for a moment white with anger. He knew that he was foiled. Then springing forward, he thundered, “I may not touch your neck; but see, I have my revenge.” And so, falling upon Loke, who struggled, but struggled in vain, he whipped from his mantle a thong and thread of brass; and before even Loke knew what had been done, he had sewed, firm together, the lying boasting lips of the evil god, Loke, the wicked-hearted son of Odin.