“Good, I’ll come.”
The Soldier returned home.
“Well, grandson, what has God sent you?” says his grandfather.
“Nothing much, grandfather! The merchant told me to come again. Should I go or not?”
“If you go, you won’t remain alive, and if you don’t go, you won’t remain alive! But you’d better go.”
“But if anything happens where must I hide?”
“I’ll tell you, grandson. Buy yourself a frying-pan, and hide it so that the merchant sha’n’t see it. When you go to his house he’ll try to force a lot of brandy on you. You look out, don’t drink much, drink just what you can stand. At midnight, as soon as the wind begins to roar, and the coffin to rock, do you that very moment climb on to the stove-pipe, and cover yourself over with the frying-pan. There no one will find you out.”
The Soldier had a good sleep, bought himself a frying-pan,[367] hid it under his cloak, and towards evening went to the merchant’s house. The merchant seated him at table and took to plying him with liquor—tried every possible kind of invitation and cajolery on him.
“No,” says the Soldier, “that will do. I’ve had my whack. I won’t have any more.”
“Well, then, if you won’t drink, come along and read your psalter.”