"My house is so small," said the friend, with an air of sorrow and embarrassment, "that it can scarcely contain the living who dwell in it. How could I find room for the dead?"
The young man begged his friend to have pity on him, but without avail, and the ungrateful man shut the door in his face.
"You see, my son," said the old merchant, "these are the kind of friends on whom you were depending."
"To tell you the truth, father," said the young man, "I have always suspected that this particular friend was a hypocrite, but all are not so. Wait, and you shall see."
The younger man continued to knock at the doors of his friends. Fifty times he met with the same reception. No one wanted to do him the kindness to hide the body.
"My son," said the old merchant, "you must see at last how little you can depend on man. What has become of the friends whom you were praising to me a little while ago? In your supposed misfortune each one has forsaken you. I will show you the difference between the one real friend that I have and the fifty false ones whom you have tested."
As they talked, the father and son reached the door of the house of the one whom the old merchant had represented as the model of perfect friendship. The merchant related to his friend the imaginary misfortunes that had befallen his son, and begged the friend to hide the compromising sack.
"Oh, happy day and blessed hour!" exclaimed the faithful friend. "My house is large, and herein you may hide whatever you choose."
"Think," said the young man, "of the great dangers to which you expose yourself! Who knows but you may be accused of the murder, or, at least, of favoring the assassin."