The plowman put the ring on his finger and started home. Night was settling down as he entered the town. Almost the first person he saw was a goldsmith standing at the door of his shop. So the plowman went up to him and asked him what the ring was worth.
"It is of no value," said the goldsmith.
The plowman laughed.
"Ah, Mr. Goldsmith," he said, "you have made a mistake. It is a wishing ring and will give me anything I care to wish for."
The goldsmith asked to see the ring again.
"Well, my good man," he said. "Never mind about the ring. I dare say you are far from home, and are in want of some supper and a bed for the night. Come in and spend the night with me."
So the plowman did this. But when he was sound asleep the goldsmith took the ring from his finger and put another, just like it, in its place.
Next morning the plowman set out with the false ring. The goldsmith closed the shutters of his shop and bolted the door. Then, turning the ring on his finger, he said, "I wish for a hundred thousand dollars."
Immediately there fell about him a shower of hard, bright silver. The dollars struck him on the head, the shoulders, the arms. They covered the floor. The floor gave way with their weight and the goldsmith, with his riches, fell into the cellar beneath.
Next morning, when the goldsmith did not open his shop as usual, the neighbors forced their way in and found him buried beneath the pile.