"Who said we didn't make a bet? Did I say we didn't?"
"And how could you say we didn't, when we made it right here in this very place? Perhaps you don't remember what the bet was, as I do. You said: Jews are usurers, Jews sell the people vodka, Jews have pity on their own people but on no one else; that's why every one wishes them to the devil. Of course, perhaps you didn't say that, and perhaps I didn't say in answer: there stands a miller behind that very sycamore tree who, if he had any pity for Jews, would shout to you now and say: 'Drop him, Mr. Devil; he has a wife, he has children!' But he won't do it. That was number one!"
"How could the wretch have guessed that?" thought the miller; but the devil said:
"Very well; number one!"
"And then I said—don't you remember?—I said: as soon as I've gone the miller will open a tavern and will begin selling diluted vodka. He lends money already at a fine rate of interest. That was number two!"
"All right; number two!" the devil agreed, but the miller scratched his head and thought:
"How could the infernal brute have guessed all that?"
"And I went on to say that, as a matter of fact, Christians did wish us to the devil. But do you think, said I, that if one of us Jews were here now
