Once upon a time (he said) there was a king who had two sons, and they were twins, the first ever born in the country. One was named Enegan and the other Britoval, and though one was older than the other, I don’t remember which it was, and I doubt anyone else does, either. The two boys were so alike that not even their dear mother’s heart could tell one from the other, and before their first month was out they were so thoroughly mixed that no one could be sure which to call Britoval and which Enegan. Finally, they gave the whole thing up as a bad lot, used their heads, and hung tags on the boys and called them Ned and Sam.
They grew up tall and strong and as like each other as two warts on the same toad. If one was an inch taller or a pound heavier at the beginning of the month, by the end of it they were all even again. It was all even between them in wrestling, running, swimming, riding, and spitting. By the time they were grown-up young men, there was only one way to mark them apart. It was universally agreed that Sam was bright and Ned was charming, and the people of the country even called them Bright Sam and Charming Ned.
“Hark,” they would say as a horse went by on the road. “There goes Prince Charming Ned.” Or, alternatively, “Hey, mark old Bright Sam thinking under yon spreading oak.”
The boys did earn their names, and honestly. Ask Sam to do a sum, parse a sentence, or figure a puzzle and he could do it in a trice, whereas Ned just wasn’t handy at that sort of thing. On the other hand, if you like charm and heart, courtesy and good humor, Ned was a really swell fellow, a delight to his dear mother, and a merry ray of sunshine to his subjects, while Sam at his best was a trifle sour.
Then one day the Old King, their father, died and the question arose as to which son should inherit, for the kingdom was small and the treasury was empty, and there simply was not enough for both.
The Great Council of the Kingdom met to consider the problem. They met and considered, considered and voted, voted and tied. At first they said it was obvious that the elder son should inherit, but they found that no one at all could say which was the elder. Then an exasperated soul proposed that the younger should inherit, and all agreed that was a fine way out until they discovered that it was equally problematic which was the younger. It was at this point that they decided to vote to settle the question—but the vote turned out a tie, for half said, “A king should be bright so as to be able to rule intelligently and deal wisely with the friends and the enemies of the kingdom. Nobody really has to like him.” And the other half said, “A king should be beloved by his subjects and well thought of by his neighbors and peers. The Council can always provide the brains needed to run things if brains are ever required.”
At last, finally, and in the end, it was decided by all that there was only one way to settle the matter. Charming Ned and Bright Sam must undertake a Quest and whichever of them was successful would become King of the Realm, and take his fine old father’s place. If neither was successful, they could always bring in a poor second cousin who was waiting in the wings, hat in hand. Kingdoms always have second cousins around to fill in when they’re needed.
The Quest decided upon was this: It seems that many miles away—or so the story had come to them in the kingdom—there was a small cavern in which lived a moderate-sized ogre with a fine large treasure, big enough to handle the kingdom’s budget problem for some years to come. It was agreed that whichever of the two boys could bring the treasure home where it belonged would have proved to the satisfaction of everybody his overwhelming right to be king.
At this point the story was interrupted. One of the three crewmen stuck his head up through the stairwell and said, “We’re all tight, George. Miles says we can leave any time now.”
George said to me, “Strap yourself in there,” and pushed