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and hungry will you cross my plough," the peasant shot back, and whacked Hercules sharply with his pole. Hercules' blood boiled. Not for nothing was he the strongest man in the world. He yanked the pole out of the king's grasp, snapped it over his knee like a twig, then shoved the man aside and unyoked one of the oxen, his favorite food of all. Thiodamas sputtered with rage. Never had anyone dared cross him like this. He filled the air with a stream of curses foul enough to shrivel a lesser man, and stormed off to call his people to arms, turning time and again to lob rock after rock at Hercules, who shrugged off the stones like so many gnats. With his sharp bronze sword he made short work of the lumbering ox, then skewered the meat, roasted it to a turn, and pulled it off the fire. T hey all fell to and ate their fill, but Hercules put away the most by far, didn't even spare the bones. As they were polishing off the last of the meal, King Thiodamas rode up with a host of his warriors, all armed to the teeth. His men would dispatch the bum right off,
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