"A pint, Herr Rathsherr," cried the Miller; and he, too, jumped up now. "For every bushel one pint."
"No, a bushel. Here it is: for every bushel one bushel as payment; and what is written is written, and here is the Amtshauptmann's seal."
"Herr Rathsherr, my head is swimming. Herr, that is only a mistake."
"Mistake or no mistake, what is written is written; the old Amtshauptmann said so himself."
"That he did," said the Miller; "yes, that he did, I can swear to it."
And now the Miller saw before him a prospect of deliverance from the Jew's clutches, and of many, many bushels of corn and of many, many bright thalers; for was not the whole bailiwick obliged to bring corn to his mill?
"This is a good thing, Herr Rathsherr," he cried; "but----but----"
"What do you mean with your buts, Voss?" cried my uncle indignantly. "The thing is plain and clear."
"Yes, Herr Rathsherr, I only mean, what is to be done with the sacks?"
"With the sacks?--What sacks?"