“Cook, I salute thee! To-night empty your oil into the street; scatter your flour upon the night-winds—you will need them no more. Farewell, there comes a day when every tumour must be punctured. Listen now to my last prognostication: Do not waste your wife’s cash in mock-money. It will not avail you.” The fortune-teller moved slowly away.
“Master fortune-teller! Master fortune-teller!”
“What is it, unfortunate man?”
“I will give you one rice-cake and one piece of fat pork.”
“Does one grain of planted rice produce as much as four?”
“I am a poor man.”
“Must not the poor avert their fate as well as the rich?”
“I will give you two rice-cakes and one piece of lean pork.”
“You are indeed a poor man,” commented the fortune-teller sadly, “and unfortunate. Yes, my compassion pleads for you. I will prognosticate. Yes, for two cakes, two fat pieces of pork, and a bowl of kale.”
“Too much! Too much!” cried the cook desperately. “I will give you the cakes and the pork, no more! no more!”