"What are you going to do with the tinder-box, just tell me that?" said the soldier.
"That is no business of yours," said the witch. "You have the gold, give me the tinder-box!"
"Rubbish!" said the soldier. He had grown rude as well as rich, you see. "Rubbish—take your choice—tell me at once what you mean to do with the tinker-box, or I will draw my sword and cut off your head."
"I won't tell you," screamed the witch.
Then the soldier cut off her head, and the poor witch lay there dead. But the soldier did not stay to look at her. In a great hurry he took all his gold and tied it up in the blue checked apron.
He slung it across his shoulder, put the tinder-box in his pocket, and marched off to town.
How grand he felt! What heaps of gold he had in his bundle!
When the soldier reached the town he walked straight to the finest hotel, and asked for the best rooms, and for dinner ordered all his favorite puddings and fruits.
The servant who cleaned his boots tossed her head. "Shabby boots for a rich man to wear," she said.
But next day the soldier had bought himself very grand new boots, and gay clothing, so that no one could possibly call him shabby.