The rain was falling in torrents and there seemed to be no prospect of its stopping. Publius had already exhausted all his favourite wet-weather games and, after games, all his favourite forms of mischief. He had teased the slaves out of their lives. He had set Davus to look for Stichus and, at the same time, Stichus to look for Davus. If you started them in different parts of the house, you could get a good deal of fun out of their wasted exertions, before they met and discovered the trick. Then he had begged all the titbits from the cook that he was likely to get. Then he had played with the monkey, until it got tired of his exactions and escaped to the roof. And still the rain went on. What was he to do with himself? All amusements exhausted and still several hours to bedtime. A happy thought! He would find Syrus and get him to play their favourite game of story-telling. Syrus was a good listener and helped out Publius' own amateur efforts by his close attention. But when it came to his turn, he was a very prince of story-telling. He must have had a wonderful life before he came to Rome as a slave. He could tell you stories for hours of the life in the desert, of the raids of nomads who came and went so quickly on their camels; of the powerful genies, who would come to you out of a storm of sand and might either destroy you or become your devoted servants, according as you had or had not the word of power to tame them. Publius could never understand how, after such a life, Syrus could put up with being a slave as readily as he did. Rome, at the best, must be very dull after such an existence. Anyhow, Syrus was the man he wanted; the next thing must be to find him.