As the evening wore on and more wine and mead were consumed, the talking and the laughter got louder. Suddenly, apparently from out of nowhere, a Fool appeared. He was very little—smaller even than Wermhere. He had short arms and a very big head and was dressed in a tiny warrior’s costume. He held a shield and a spear with a blown up pig’s bladder tied to one end.
He darted around the room helter skelter like a bumble bee in a hut, only stopping to pop unwary people with the bladder. “Who’s fool enough to think a contest with me would be fooling around?” he shouted in his high, squeaky voice. The warriors found this a good joke, and the older ones egged the younger ones on.
“Here’s your chance to prove your manhood. How about it, Oswulf?”
Oswulf’s friends began to push him toward the dwarf. Oswulf fought them off and gripped the bench with his arms and legs so he couldn’t be lifted.
“Oooh, he’s no fool, he’s scared to fight me,” taunted the Fool. He went over to the head table and bowed deeply to the king.
“Your Majesty, are you a fool?”
“No,” laughed the king, “you’re the fool.”
“How can you tell?” said the fool.
“You’re small like a fool, you boast like a fool, and you’ve got a fool’s balloon.”
“And by these reasonings, sire, you think I am a fool?”
“Yes.”
“With all due respect, you, sire, are the fool.”
“How is this, my little man?”
“A man who reasons with a fool must be a fool.”
