Lankwiler spoke in puzzlement: "Not entirely. The scholars at the Institute routinely calculate the weight of single raindrops. Is this to be considered good or bad?"

Drofo responded politely: "We are not adjudging the research of scholars at the Institute. We are discussing, rather, the work of the worminger."

"Ah! All is now clear!"

"Precisely so!" said Cugel. "Proceed, Drofo, with your interesting remarks!"

With arms behind his back, Drofo took a step to port, then a step to starboard. "Our calling is starkly noble! The dilettante, the weakling, the fool: all reveal themselves in their true colors. When the voyage goes well, then any mooncalf is bright and merry; he dances a jig and plays the concertina, and everyone thinks: 'Oh, for the life of the worminger!' But then hardship attacks! Black pust rages without remorse; impactions come like the gongs of Fate; the worm takes to rearing and plunging: then the popinjay is revealed, or, more likely, is discovered hiding in the darkest corner of the hold!"

Cugel and Lankwiler mulled over the remarks, while Drofo paced to port, then to starboard.

Drofo pointed a long pale fore-finger toward the sea. "Yonder we go, halfway between the sky and the ocean floor, where the secrets of every age are concealed in a darkness which will grow absolute when the sun goes out."

As if to emphasize Drofo's remarks, the face of the sun momentarily glazed over with a dark film, similar to a rheum in an old man's eye. After a flutter and a wink, the light of day returned, to the obvious relief of Lankwiler, although Drofo ignored the incident. He held his finger in the air.

"The worm is a familiar of the sea! It is wise, though it uses six concepts only: sun, wave, wind, horizon, dark deep, faithful direction, hunger, and satiation. . . . Yes, Lankwiler? Why are you counting on your fingers?"

"Sir, it is no great matter."

"The worms are not clever," said Drofo. "They perform no tricks and they know no jokes. The good worminger, like his worms, is a man of simplicity. He cares little for what he eats and is indifferent as to whether he sleeps wet or dry, or even if he sleeps at all. When his worms drive straight, when the wake lies true, when ingestion is sharp and voidure is proper: then the worminger is serene. He craves no more from the world, neither wealth nor ease nor the sensuous caress of languid females nor trinkets like that foppish bedazzlement Cugel wears in his hat. His way is the watery void!"

"Most inspiring!" cried Lankwiler. "I am proud to be a worminger! Cugel, what of you?

"I no less!" declared Cugel. "It is a worthy calling, and the hat ornament, while of no intrinsic value, is an heirloom."

Drofo gave an indifferent nod. "Now I will divulge the first axiom of our trade, which indeed can be expanded to a universal application. Thus: 'A man may show himself to you and say, "I am a Master Worminger!" Or a Master Worminger may stand to the side and speak no word. How is truth to be known? It is told by the worms.'