hardly opened the door of the mill before he fell down and began to snore.
The devil laughed merrily, and, going to the edge of the dam, beckoned to Yankel where he stood under the sycamore tree.
"You seem to have won, Yankel," he shouted. "It looks very much like it. But give me something to wear, all the same; I'll pay you for it."
Yankel took a pair of breeches to the light and looked them over to be sure he wasn't giving the devil a new pair, and while he was busy with them, an ox-cart appeared on the road leading out of the wood. The oxen were sleepily nodding their heads, the wheels were quietly squeaking, and in the cart lay a peasant, Opanas the Slow, without a coat, without a hat, without boots, bawling a song at the top of his voice.
Opanas was a good peasant, but the poor fellow sorely loved vodka. Whenever he dressed up to go anywhere Kharko would be sure to call to him from his look-out at the inn-door:
"Won't you drink a little mugful, Opanas? What's your hurry?"
And Opanas would drink it.
Then, when he had crossed the dam and reached the village, the miller himself would call to him from the door of the other tavern:
"Won't you come in and have a little mugful, Opanas? What's the hurry?"
