The peasant was angry, and scolded his wife: “What do you mean, you slut? Do you think it’s ditchwater, you cripple, that you must go pouring good stuff like that over the floor?”

The imp nudged the Devil, his master, with his elbow: “See,” said he, “that’s the man who did not grudge his last crust!”

The peasant, still railing at his wife, began to carry the drink round himself. Just then a poor peasant returning from work came in uninvited. He greeted the company, sat down, and saw that they were drinking. Tired with his day’s work, he felt that he too would like a drop. He sat and sat, and his mouth kept watering, but the host instead of offering him any only muttered: “I can’t find drink for everyone who comes along.”

This pleased the Devil; but the imp chuckled and said, “Wait a bit, there’s more to come yet!”

The rich peasants drank, and their host drank too. And they began to make false, oily speeches to one another.