it was substantial, for reasons which will hereinafter appear.
Needless to say (except to make the story longer and extend the
reader's pleasure), Sir Philo made energetic protests, which
eventually descended to rather pathetic entreaties, all in a
futile attempt to change the king's mind. But King Cleon would
not be dissuaded, and so the news was soon heralded throughout the
kingdom, and, as you might suppose, arrow sales shot up immediately
and remarkably.
As when a child pounds the ground near an anthill, causing a good
many of the residents instantly to surface and run around in massed
panic, so on the day of the contest the world arrived in a swarm at
the castle of Cleon the Modest and prepared to be a witness, if not
the victor, in the winning of Jennifrella.
There were several dozen contenders in the contest, some quite
accomplished archers, some more or less dilettantish, and quite a
few whose skills put the spectators at random hazard. Amid the
noise and enthusiasm on this day stood a grim and silent Sir Philo,
deeply troubled about the proceedings for three reasons. First,
strictly from a philosophical standpoint, a shooting contest was
a completely irrational method of choosing either a spouse or a
future king, and irrationality like this always troubled the
young knight.
Second, though Sir Fassade was a very good shot, capable of
satisfactorily humiliating most of the other contestants, he was no
match for Sir Bargle. If they used the word then, I would have to
exaggerate only slightly to say that Sir Bargle was, as they say in
French, or maybe don't, a jerque. He punctuated nearly every
sentence with an oath or a belch, constantly leered at the ladies
in waiting (who knew all too well to keep a safe distance from him),
and those who attended carefully to his speech noted that the word
he used more than any other was "me." In a word (or fourteen,
actually), Sir Bargle was a man unlikely to put his personal
appetites in second place. The prospect of this knight nuzzling
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