“Yes,” I said, “I saw one to the right of the spout, wearing fillets and withered wreaths, his breast covered with gilt leaves.” “I myself puton the gilt leaves,’ said Eucrates, “when he cured me of the ague that was torturing me to death every other day.” “Really, is our excellent Pellichus a doctor also?” said I. “Do not mock,” Eucrates replied, “or before long the man will punish you. I know what virtue there is in this statue that you make fun of. Don’t you suppose that he can send fevers upon whomsoever he will, since it is possible for him to send them away?” “May the manikin be gracious and kindly,” said I, “since he is so manful. But what else does everyone in the house see him doing?”
“As soon as night comes,” he said, “he gets down from the pedestal on which he stands and goes all about the house; we all encounter him, sometimes singing, and he has never harmed anybody. One has but to turn aside, and he passes without molesting in any way those who saw him. Upon my word, he often takes baths and disports himself all night, so that the water can be heard splashing.” “See here, then,” said I, “perhaps the statue is not Pellichus but Talos the Cretan, the son of Minos; he was a bronze man, you know, and made the rounds in Crete. If he were made of wood instead of bronze, there would be nothing to hinder his being one of the devices of Daedalus instead of a work of Demetrius; anyhow, he is like them in playing truant from his pedestal, by what you say.”
