Stingy Jack

“Aye,” Jack answered.  “It’s the work of Satan, I tell ye.”

“Is that so?” the stranger asked.  “Tell me.  Why would the lord of the underworld conspire to keep a fine gentleman such as you from enjoying his nightly ale?”

Perfect, Jack thought.  He had the stranger talking.  Now it was only a matter of time before he would taste the sweet joy of drink at this man’s expense.

“That’s the way of his trickery,” Jack lamented.  “The devil will conspire to keep the thing ye most desire from ye in the hopes that ye sell your soul in exchange for that very thing.  Like myself, for instance.  I’m not asking for much, just a tiny taste of ale to warm me bones on this cool dark evening.  But Satan won’t allow it.  I’ll have to sell me soul, I tell ye.”

“And would you?” the stranger asked.

“Would I what?”





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