The chattering and laughing stopped, and the old man and those dozens and dozens of little queer children set to work and ate everything on the table.
"Which of you washes the dishes?" asked the old man, when they had all done.
The children laughed.
"Tell the tablecloth to turn outside in."
"Tablecloth," says the old man, "turn outside in."
Up jumped the tablecloth with all the empty dishes and dirty plates and spoons, whirled itself this way and that in the air, and suddenly spread itself out flat again on the table, as clean and white as when it was taken out of the cupboard. There was not a dish or a bowl, or a spoon or a plate, or a knife to be seen; no, not even a crumb.
"That's a good tablecloth," says the old man.
"See here, grandfather," shouted the children: "you take the tablecloth along with you, and say no more about those turnips."
"Well, I'm content with that," says the old man. And he folded up the tablecloth very carefully and put it away inside his shirt, and said he must be going.
"Good-bye," says he, "and thank you for the dinner and the tablecloth."