“That’s good to hear.”

“Yes, good to hear.” The gnome glanced about furtively, looking to see if Ben was alone, looking to see if he was hiding anything. “You must have walked quite a distance north from the Greensward, sir. Are you a craftsman?”

“Not exactly.”

“A trader, then?”

Ben hesitated a moment and then nodded. “On occasion, I am.”

“Oh?” The gnome’s squint seemed to deepen. “But you do not appear to have any wares with you this trip, sir.”

“Ah! Well, sometimes appearances are deceiving. Some trading wares can be quite small, you know.” He patted his tunic. “Pocket-sized.”

The gnome’s front teeth flashed nervously out of its grimy face. “Yes, of course—that is so. Could it be that you are interested in trading here, sir?”

“Could be.” Ben set the hook and waited.

The gnome did not disappoint him. “With someone in particular?”

Ben shrugged. “I have done some business in the past with two members of your community—Fillip and Sot. Do you know them?”

The gnome blinked. “Yes, Fillip and Sot live here.”

Ben smiled his most disarming smile. “Are they about?”

The gnome smiled back. “Perhaps. Yes, perhaps. Would you wait a moment, please? Just a moment?”

He ducked back into his burrow and was gone. Ben waited. The minutes slipped past and no one appeared. Ben kept his place on the stump and tried to look as if he were enjoying himself. He could feel eyes watching him from everywhere. Doubts began to creep into his mind. What if Fillip and Sot took a look at him and decided he was no one they had ever seen? After all, he wasn’t the Ben Holiday they knew any longer. He was a stranger—and not a particularly well-dressed one either. He glanced down at his clothing, reminded of his sorry state. He made a rather shabby-looking trader, he thought ruefully. Fillip and Sot might decide he wasn’t worth their bother. They might decide to stay right where they were. And if he couldn’t get close enough to talk to them, he wasn’t about to have any success obtaining their help.

The afternoon shadows lengthened. Ben’s patience simmered like hot water over an open fire. He glanced irritably at Edgewood Dirk. No help was there. Eyes closed, paws tucked under, breathing slowed to nothing, the cat might have been sleeping or it might have been stuffed.

The burrow holes continued to yawn back at him in empty disinterest. The sun continued to slip into the western hills. No one appeared.

Ben had just about decided to throw in the towel when a furry, dirt-lined face poked up suddenly from a burrow opening not a dozen yards away, closely followed by a second directly beside it. Two snouts sniffed the late afternoon air warily. Two pairs of weakened eyes peered cautiously about.

Ben heaved a sigh of relief. They were Fillip and Sot.

The squinting eyes fixed on him.

“Good day, sir,” said Fillip.

“Good day, sir,” said Sot.