Hansel was pouting.  “Your wit?” he said; “does it help you to get what you want?  If it does, I’d like to know about it.”

Grettel had wriggled herself into a comfortable position; but now she sat up stiffly.  She put her hand over her mouth and whispered, “Please, Hansel, don’t say anything about food!” But she quickly turned an untroubled face to Jack, who was saying: 

“There’s the way I got old Blunderbore, for example.  You’ve heard about that, haven’t you?” And he looked anxiously at all three, one after another.

Everychild and Hansel looked at each other dubiously, but Grettel saved the situation by saying, “It was rather a long time ago.  If you’d just go over it again . . .”

“That was my most famous piece of work,” said Jack.  “You see, I carry a leather pouch under my cloak.  It’s filled with food——­”

There was an almost violent interruption by Hansel.  “Food!” he exclaimed.  But Grettel edged closer to him so that she could tug at his sleeve without being seen.

“Of course!” continued Jack.  “Well, one day after I’d had dinner with Blunderbore I boasted that I could do something he couldn’t do.  He laughed—­and I knew I had him.  Says I, ’Very well, I’ll show you.  I’m going to rip my stomach open without feeling it.’  We’d been eating ginger-bread, and I’d slipped a piece into my pouch.”

A strange light had come into Hansel’s eyes, and he sighed with ecstacy “Ginger-bread!”

“So,” resumed Jack, “I plunged my knife into my pouch hidden under my cloak, and a fine bit of ginger-bread tumbled out.”

Everychild repeated the words—­“Into the pouch hidden under your cloak.”  And Jack concluded with—­

“Of course—­so.”

He made an expert pass with his sword, and instantly a number of red apples and a dozen fine tarts rolled from under his cloak and were lying there on the grass.

Without even a hint of ceremony Hansel flung himself forward on his stomach and seized upon the tarts greedily.

Even Grettel could not conceal her desire for food, and she exclaimed joyously, “Oh, tarts!  Could I have one?”

“Why not?” replied Jack lightly; whereupon Everychild placed a number of the tarts in her lap, and she began to eat heartily.

“This comes of wearing one’s good dress,” said Grettel between tarts.  “If I’d been wearing an old rag I’d have seen no tricks, that’s certain.”

Jack regarded her a little curiously.  “As I was saying,” he resumed, “old Blunderbore shouted ‘Pooh-hoo!’ at what I had done.  That was his ugly, boasting way, you know.  He jabbed his knife into his own stomach to show he wasn’t to be outdone—­and down he fell, dead as a doornail.”

Everychild’s heart was beating hard and his face wore a troubled expression.  “I suppose,” he said after a thoughtful pause, “Blunderbore was a very wicked giant—­like the Giant Fear?”