In his previous life, aside from writing, one of Andrew Carter's few hobbies was eating. He might not have been quite as skilled as a master chef, but he did have a few signature dishes. He picked two or three of them, and when he mentioned them to the two little ones, they both got interested and begged Andrew Carter.

Having just avenged himself and cleared his name, Andrew Carter was in a great mood. “Come on, big brother will take you to catch loaches and make soup when we get back.”

Andrew Carter took his younger sister and brother to the riverside, chose a shallow spot, and used river mud to build a small bay facing the current. It wouldn’t be long before some loaches would swim in.

Lying on the grass waiting, the warm sun shining on them, it was incredibly comfortable. His sister Stephen Carter stared at the road not far away and suddenly said awkwardly, “Why isn’t mom back yet? She promised to tell Xiang’er a story!”

Kids six or seven years old always miss their mom. Seeing his sister sad, Andrew Carter quickly tried to distract her. “Mom can’t tell stories as well as big brother.”

“Liar!” Stephen Carter shook her head. “Big brother only knows how to catch fish, not tell stories!”

Samuel Carter grinned and nodded hard. “Catch fish, catch fish.”

“Wow, you dare underestimate your brother? That’s an insult to my professional skills!”

Andrew Carter protested indignantly, found a stone to sit on, and put the two little ones in front of him. “Let me show you whether I can tell a story or not…”

“This story takes place in the Tang Dynasty. There was a farmer with the surname Huang. He wasn’t much to look at, so people called him ‘Huang Toad.’ This old Huang had a skill—he could tell fortunes, but he wasn’t very accurate…” Andrew Carter began slowly. This was actually the famous crosstalk piece “Huang Banxian” by Liu Baorui, but he set it in the Tang Dynasty.

Andrew Carter gestured animatedly as he told how old Huang, like a blind cat catching a dead mouse, kept getting lucky, making the two little ones laugh so hard they slapped the stone. Unbeknownst to them, other kids playing by the river had gathered around, listening intently. When he got to the part where old Huang muttered in his house, “Hurry, hurry, I’m coming. Can you still survive?” the head eunuch Cui Ying outside got so scared he knelt down and confessed to old Huang that he was the one who stole the emperor’s luminous pearl.

The kids’ eyes were wide with excitement. They could swear they’d never heard such an interesting story before—they were all completely captivated. Andrew Carter didn’t notice that an old man had also joined the crowd, shaking his head and listening with relish, occasionally showing a look of surprise.

When Andrew Carter got to the end… old Huang gritted his teeth and stomped his foot, calling himself by his nickname, “Huang Toad! You’re going to die in this box!” The emperor heard this and exclaimed, “Hmm?? He got it right again!!!”

This immediately set off a roar of laughter, with tears streaming down their faces. The old man suddenly came up close to Andrew Carter. “Young man, I’ll buy this story from you.”

…

A single performance of “Huang Banxian” not only made the kids see Andrew Carter in a new light, but even attracted an old man. He was short, with a big mouth and shrewd, darting eyes—not at all like a farmer.

“Uncle, you want to buy the story?”

“Yes!” The old man chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I’m a storyteller who travels from street to street. I just happened to pass by and wanted to tell a couple of stories to earn a meal. I didn’t expect such a young man to be so good at storytelling. I’m ashamed to say I can’t compare, so I wouldn’t dare show off in front of you.”

The old man was used to telling stories, so he spoke very elegantly. Andrew Carter was also very polite and smiled. “Thank you for the compliment… So, how much can I sell that story for?”

“Well…” The old man grinned. “Young man, the story has to be yours. If you heard it from somewhere else, I can’t pay for it!”

Andrew Carter didn’t know that storytellers had their own rules. You couldn’t just use a story you heard somewhere else without permission, or it could end up in court. In fact, throughout history, the Song Dynasty was especially strict about copyright protection—no joke.

“Of course it’s mine. If you don’t believe me, ask around—who else knows it?” Andrew Carter said confidently.

The old man thought for a while, then reached into his money pouch and, after a long moment, pulled out a string of coins—exactly one guan.

“How about this?”

Andrew Carter’s eyes lit up. He’d thought the old man would just give him thirty or fifty coins as a token, but he didn’t expect so much. He actually felt a bit embarrassed.

“Uncle, may I ask your surname?”

“My surname is Han.” The old man pointed to his mouth and smiled. “People call me ‘Toad’ too, just like that Huang Banxian. I tell stories at the Sanjiang Teahouse in Cangzhou. If you ever come to Cangzhou, you’re welcome to listen. I’m afraid I’m not as good as you, though, and might not be up to your standards.”

Andrew Carter frowned slightly. As the saying goes, you can’t get far without money. Aside from clearing his name, he’d been thinking about how to make money.

He’d thought about inventing something, like making soap or perfume, but the problem was he was a giant with words and a dwarf in action—he had no idea how to actually do it. Besides, everything needed capital, and his pockets were cleaner than his face—he wanted to but couldn’t.

Franklin’s words gave Andrew Carter an idea—maybe selling stories was a good way to make money.

“Uncle Franklin, may I ask, does anyone buy storybooks? And for how much?”

“It’s hard to say. Some are expensive. I’ve heard of people offering thirty or fifty guan for a single storybook.”