“Compose me half a dozen better and one hand-count of cash shall be apportioned to you each evening,” suggested Sun.

“A handful of cash for my labour!” exclaimed the indignant Wong Pao.  “Learn, puny wayfarer, that in a single day the profit of my various enterprises exceeds a hundred taels of silver.”

“That is less than the achievement of my occupation,” said Kiau Sun.

“Less!” repeated the merchant incredulously.  “Can you, O boaster, display a single tael?”

“Doubtless I should be the possessor of thousands if I made use of the attributes of a merchant—­three hands and two faces.  But that was not the angle of my meaning:  your labour only compels men to remember; mine enables them to forget.”

Thus they continued to strive, each one contending for the pre-eminence of his own state, regardless of the sage warning:  “In three moments a labourer will remove an obstructing rock, but three moons will pass without two wise men agreeing on the meaning of a vowel”; and assuredly they would have persisted in their intellectual entertainment until the great sky-lantern rose and the pangs of hunger compelled them to desist, were it not for the manifestation of a very unusual occurrence.

The Emperor, N’ang Wei, then reigning, is now generally regarded as being in no way profound or inspired, but possessing the faculty of being able to turn the dissensions among his subjects to a profitable account, and other accomplishments useful in a ruler.  As he passed along the streets of his capital he heard the voices of two raised in altercation, and halting the bearer of his umbrella, he commanded that the persons concerned should be brought before him and state the nature of their dispute.

“The rivalry is an ancient one,” remarked the Emperor when each had made his claim.  “Doubtless we ourselves could devise a judgment, but in this cycle of progress it is more usual to leave decision to the pronouncement of the populace—­and much less exacting to our Imperial ingenuity.  An edict will therefore be published, stating that at a certain hour Kiau Sun will stand upon the Western Hill of the city and recite one of his incomparable epics, while at the same gong-stroke Wong Pao will take his station on the Eastern Hill, let us say for the purpose of distributing pieces of silver among any who are able to absent themselves from the competing attraction.  It will then be clearly seen which entertainment draws the greater number.”

“Your mind, O all-wisest, is only comparable to the peacock’s tail in its spreading brilliance!” exclaimed Wong Pao, well assured of an easy triumph.

Kiau Sun, however, remained silent, but he observed closely the benignly impartial expression of the Emperor’s countenance.

When the indicated time arrived, only two persons could have been observed within the circumference of the Western Hill of the city—­a blind mendicant who had lost his way and an extremely round-bodied mandarin who had been abandoned there by his carriers when they heard the terms of the edict.  But about the Eastern Hill the throng was so great that for some time after it was unusual to meet a person whose outline had not been permanently altered by the occasion.  Even Kiau Sun was present.