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.
"Ahhhhh," he crooned, easing his bulk back onto his
righted stool. "I'll bet you've never seen a pick-up sticks
set like this one." With exaggerated care, he slid the lid off
the tube. Then, with a flourish, he slowly upended the
cylinder until the long, slim sticks tumbled out onto the
table. "Gold plated!" purred Vinsint.
Damaris, Trapspringer, and Phineas stared at the
painted sticks on the table. After a long moment's pause,
Trapspringer said, "Those aren't gold. They aren't even
painted gold."
Vinsint flicked at the end of his nose self-consciously.
"No, they aren't," he agreed, "except for these two." He
mauled the delicate sticks with his melon-sized hands,
eventually plucking out two that were vaguely gold col-
ored. "The real gold sticks disappeared one by one over
the years. These two are all that I have left. But it used to
be a complete set of gold-plated sticks. It sure was some-
thing to see."
Vinsint scooped up the sticks and stood them on their
ends, ready to begin the game. But then his head twisted
to the side abruptly. "Did you hear that?" He smiled and
clapped his hands. "Someone else is walking through the
grove. More company!" He jumped up and began leap-
ing excitedly in circles.
Vinsint stopped suddenly, and his smile fell. "I must
hurry before they somehow find their own way out." He
stomped over to a large cupboard that sat on the floor.
Opening the door, he hauled out yard after yard of
heavy, rusty chain, coiling it about his arm. His three
guests cringed, thinking he meant to tie them up
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