One morning, he had been walking with the old beachcomber, and, for once, the old man spoke up.

“What’s your name, boy?” he asked.

Scrum didn’t appreciate the old man’s tone in that question, but he supposed they really should have introduced themselves at the beginning of their relationship. “The name’s Scrum.”

“Scrum, eh, that doesn’t sound like too good of a name to go by, are you sure that’s the name your parents gave ya? The name’s ah…” the beachcomber paused, Scrum wondered idly if he’d forgotten his name. “The name is Beech. Beech C. Sand.”

“Well, if we’re going to be formal about it, my name is Scrumulus, Scrumulus J. Caen IV. Nice to meet you, Mr. Sand.”

The old man gulped, but he hoped Scrum didn’t notice. “Scrumulus J. Caen you say?”

“Yep, that’s the shameful name I hate to bear these days…”

“Ah… Pray tell, why are you ashamed of that name?”

Scrum explained the situation to him, the loss of the shoes, the will, everything. The old man was very quiet the entire time.