The inn-keeper, who was celebrating his marriage with his fifth wife, recognized me at once. He was not in the least rejoiced to see me again; quite the contrary:
"See!" he called to his friends inside the house, "this is the fellow I told you about—the one who predicted what would happen to the Antwerp caravan. Every word he said came true! He shall not come into my house again. I dare say," he added, speaking to me from the door-way, "I dare say you have another witch-story to tell? Don't you dare to utter one word of your evil prophecies, you bird of evil omen!"
The entire company seized cudgels and chairs and threatened to brain me if I opened my lips.
"Just keep your temper, good people," I returned coolly, "I don't intend to tell you what would be of great benefit to you—your treatment of me is so unfriendly, I shall not say one word—I want nothing from you but some bread and cheese, and a mug of beer: and a bundle of straw in a corner where I may pass the night."
"Have you money to pay for all this?" demanded the inn-keeper.
"Certainly I have;" and I handed him my thaler.
"Ho-ho, fellow, this is a counterfeit," he sneered, tossing the coin to the ceiling and letting it fall on the stone table.
The clear ringing sound was unmistakable—the thaler was genuine. Angered by the insolence of the inn-keeper, I said in a tone, the meaning of which he could not mistake:
"Look here, beer-seller; I want you to understand that I am not a circulator of counterfeit money!"
"What!" he roared in a fury; "do you dare to insinuate that I circulate counterfeit money? For your impudence I shall keep this thaler, and have it tested in the city tomorrow; and that you may not run away in the meantime, I shall pen you in my hen-coop."