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But there were no blows.
I peeked out between my arms as big chunks of bread spewed
out of my mouth.
"What is this?" asked a bewildered old man staring down at me.
"A young elf, all by himself?"
I didn't answer. I kept coughing, spitting out wads of half-
chewed bread into the bottom of the boat.
The old man shook his head with exasperation and began
slapping me on the back.
When I was finally able to breathe again, I looked past the old
man and saw that the beach was empty. Thick-Neck Nick was
nowhere in sight.
"You in trouble, elf?" asked the old man, seeing my furtive
look.
I nodded my head, figuring to play on the old man's
sympathies. "Thick-Neck Nick doesn't like me," I said.
"Thick-Neck Nick doesn't like anybody," agreed the old man
with a sigh. Then he looked at me with a sly grin and added, "He
especially hates one particular elf who has a habit of stealing his
bread."
My face reddened.
"What's your name, elf?" he demanded.
"Duder," I told him.
"That's all? Just Duder?"
"It's enough," I replied, not wanting to say any more on that
subject. "What's yours?"
"Folks call me Six-Finger Fiske."
My gaze immediately shifted to his hands.
"Don't expect to see an extra digit, elf," the old man said with a
harsh laugh. "Had a drunk doctor at my birthing, and the fool
thought he saw six fingers on my hand. My mother didn't know
enough to count them herself, and, well, nicknames have a way of
catching on
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