So it came to pass that one morning Milky-White gave no milk at all—­not one drain!  Then the good hard-working mother threw her apron over her head and sobbed: 

“What shall we do?  What shall we do?”

Now Jack loved his mother; besides, he felt just a bit sneaky at being such a big boy and doing so little to help, so he said, “Cheer up!  Cheer up!  I’ll go and get work somewhere.”  And he felt as he spoke as if he would work his fingers to the bone; but the good woman shook her head mournfully.

“You’ve tried that before, Jack,” she said, “and nobody would keep you.  You are quite a good lad but your wits go a-wool-gathering.  No, we must sell Milky-White and live on the money.  It is no use crying over milk that is not here to spill!”

You see, she was a wise as well as a hard-working woman, and Jack’s spirits rose.

“Just so,” he cried.  “We will sell Milky-White and be richer than ever.  It’s an ill wind that blows no one good.  So, as it is market-day, I’ll just take her there and we shall see what we shall see.”

“But—­” began his mother.

“But doesn’t butter parsnips,” laughed Jack.  “Trust me to make a good bargain.”

So, as it was washing-day, and her sick husband was more ailing than usual, his mother let Jack set off to sell the cow.

“Not less than ten pounds,” she bawled after him as he turned the corner.

Ten pounds, indeed!  Jack had made up his mind to twenty!  Twenty solid golden sovereigns!

He was just settling what he should buy his mother as a fairing out of the money, when he saw a queer little old man on the road who called out, “Good-morning, Jack!”

“Good-morning,” replied Jack, with a polite bow, wondering how the queer little old man happened to know his name; though, to be sure, Jacks were as plentiful as blackberries.

“And where may you be going?” asked the queer little old man.  Jack wondered again—­he was always wondering, you know—­what the queer little old man had to do with it; but, being always polite, he replied: 

“I am going to market to sell Milky-White—­and I mean to make a good bargain.”

“So you will!  So you will!” chuckled the queer little old man.  “You look the sort of chap for it.  I bet you know how many beans make five?”

“Two in each hand and one in my mouth,” answered Jack readily.  He really was sharp as a needle.

“Just so, just so!” chuckled the queer little old man; and as he spoke he drew out of his pocket five beans.  “Well, here they are, so give us Milky-White.”

Jack was so flabbergasted that he stood with his mouth open as if he expected the fifth bean to fly into it.

“What!” he said at last.  “My Milky-White for five common beans!  Not if I know it!”

“But they aren’t common beans,” put in the queer little old man, and there was a queer little smile on his queer little face.  “If you plant these beans over-night, by morning they will have grown up right into the very sky.”