"Then perhaps we should hear from another and you will learn a few new stories that are not so sad and hard to tell," the Gnome answered. "I would certainly not press you to speak when it clearly causes you pain."
"I think, then, that I can venture a tale," said the caravan master. Now that the wagons had been settled for the night, he had calmed considerably. "We were coming to a town in the north and, being new to town, asked a man walking into town if, in exchange for a ride, he would guide us to the market and point out some of the towns better features. He eagerly agreed and climbed aboard. 'See that bridge we're going to cross?' he says. 'I built that bridge with my own two hands, using wood I cut from my own property, otherwise we'd be using the ford ten miles west of here. But they don't call me Fergus the bridge builder.'. Half a mile further on, we see a temple. 'See that roof? I put that roof on after a fire destroyed the last one, using wood I cut from my own property. But they don't call me Fergus the roofer.'. By this time we're into the town and we're passing a well. 'I dowsed that water and dug that well, when we had a drought and the river as nothing but a trickle and the old well ran dry. But they don't call me Fergus the dowser.'. Finally my curiosity got the better of me and I had to ask, 'What is it they call you then?'. He looks me straight in the eye and says 'Michael'."
