Og frowns a little, and shifts the branches of the tree, trying to make the needles poke a bit less relentlessly. It's a dreadful sort of tree, it is; a Christmas tree, they said. Very well, a Christmas tree, but an uncomfortable one. At any rate, it must be borne.
He is waiting.
Sooner or later, the old man will come by with his jug and his carpetbag, and then Og will follow. Wherever the fellow happens to traipse, he will be followed, and Og will know where what is in the carpetbag will be hidden. That is why he came across the sea. He doesn't give up easily, and it's needed desperately.
He waits. Surely he has all the time in the world. He did once; perhaps he still retains it. He can never wait too long for his prize.
Surely, he has all the time in the world.
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