the house. There’s a man in there waiting for it. He’s a little strange looking but you needn’t be afraid. He won’t hurt you.”
Yirik took the pitcher of beer and started in. He opened the door and then, as he caught sight of Peter, he dropped the pitcher and fled.
The landlord scolded him angrily.
“What do you mean,” he shouted, “not giving the gentleman his beer? And breaking the pitcher, too! The price of it will be deducted from your wages! Draw another pitcher of beer and place it at once before the gentleman.”
Yirik feared Peter but he feared the landlord more. He was an orphan, poor lad, and served the landlord for his keep and three dollars a year.
So with trembling fingers he drew a pitcher of beer and then, breathing a prayer to his patron saint, he slowly dragged himself into the tavern.
“There, there, boy,” Peter called out kindly. “You needn’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not the Devil. I’m only his little brother-in-law.”
Yirik took heart and placed the beer in front of Peter. Then he stood still, not daring to raise his eyes.
Peter began asking him about himself, who he was, how he came to be working for the landlord, and
