“Gimlet, son of Groin, your obedient servant,” said the dwarf, bowing to reveal a hunchback. “May you always buy cheap and sell dear.”
“Frito, son of Dildo, yours,” said Frito in some confusion, racking his brains for the correct reply. “May your hemorrhoids shrink without surgery.”
The dwarf looked puzzled but not displeased. “Then you are the boggie of whom Goodgulf spoke, the Ringer?”
Frito nodded.
“Do you have it with you?”
“Would you like to see it?” asked Frito politely.
“Oh, no thanks,” said Gimlet, “I had an uncle who had a magic tieclip and one time he sneezed and his nose fell off.”
Frito nervously touched a nostril.
“Excuse the interruption,” said the elf on his left, spitting accurately into the dwarfs left eye, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Gabby Hayes. Are you in fact the boggie with the bijou?”
“I am,” said Frito and sneezed violently.
“Allow me,” said the elf, proffering Gimlet’s beard to Frito, who was by now sneezing uncontrollably. “I am Legolam, of the Elves of Northern Weidwood.”
“Elf-dog,” hissed Gimlet, retrieving his beard.
“Pig of a dwarf,” suggested Legolam.
“Toymaker.”
“Gold digger.”
“Flit.”
“Wart.”
“Wouldn’t you like to hear a joke or a song or something?” said Frito, becoming alarmed. “It seems there was this wandering dragon, and he comes to this farmhouse and the farmer—”
“A song,” agreed Gimlet and Legolam.
“Of course,” said Frito, and desperately trying to recall some of Dildo’s doggerel, he began to sing in a squeaky voice:
Just as Frito finished, Orlon suddenly roused himself and signaled for silence. “Bingo in the Elf Lounge,” he said, and the feast ended.
Frito was making his way to the table where Moxie and Pepsi were sitting when a bony hand reached out of a potted palm and grasped his shoulder. “Come with me,” said Goodgulf, brushing a frond aside, and led the surprised boggie down the hail and into a small room almost entirely filled by a huge glasstopped table. Orlon and Stomper had already taken seats and as he and Goodgulf sat down Frito was amazed to see his dinner companions, Gimlet and Legolam, enter and seat themselves on opposite sides of the table. They were quickly followed by a heavyset man in iridescent pegged trousers and sharply pointed shoes. Last of all came a small figure in a loud shirt smoking a foul elvish cigar and carrying a Scrabble board.
“Dildo!” cried Frito.
“Ah, Frito my lad,” said Dildo, slapping Frito heavily on the back, “so you made it after all. Well, well, well.” Orlon held out a moist palm, and Dildo rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills.
“Two, wasn’t it?” he said.
“Ten,” said Orlon.
“So it was, so it was,” said Dildo, and dropped the bills in the elf’s hand.
“It’s been so long since the party,” said Frito. “What have you been doing?”
“Not much,” said the old boggie. “A little Scrabble, a little pederasty. I’m retired, you see.”
“But what is this all about? Who are the Black Riders, and what do they want with me? And what has the Ring got to do with it?”
“Much and little, more or less, dear boggie,” explained Orlon. “But all in good time. This Great Caucus has been called to answer such questions and others, but for now I will say only that there are a-many things amiss afoot, alas.”
“No lie,” said Goodgulf gravely. “The Nameless No-No is spreading again, and the time has come to act. Frito, the Ring.”
Frito nodded and drew from his pocket the paper-clip chain, link by link. With a short toss, he threw the fatal trinket onto the table, where it landed with a tinny jing.
Orlon gasped. “The Magic Dingus,” he cried.
“What proof is there that this is the Ring?” asked the man with the pointed shoes.
“There are many signs which can be read by the wise, Bromosel,” announced the Wizard. “The compass, the whistle, the magic decoder—they’re all here. And there is the inscription:
Goodgulf’s voice had become harsh and distant. An ominous black cloud filled the room. Frito gagged on the thick oily smoke.
“Was that necessary?” asked Legolam, kicking the Wizard’s still-belching smoke grenade out the door.
“Rings go better with hocus-pocus,” replied Goodgulf imperiously.
“But what does that mean?” asked Bromosel, rather annoyed that he was being referred to in the dialogue as “the man with the pointed shoes.”
“There are many interpretations,” explained Goodgulf. “My guess is that it’s either ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’ or ‘Don’t tread on me.’
No one spoke, and the room fell strangely silent.
Finally Bromosel rose and addressed the Caucus. “Much is now clear,” he said. “I had a dream one night in Minas Troney in which seven cows ate seven bushels of wheat, and when they were finished they climbed a red tower and threw up three times, chanting, ‘Say it now and say it loud, I’m a cow and I’m proud.’ And then a figure robed in white and bearing a pair of scales came forward and read from a little slip of paper: