“What do you want, then?” his customer interrupted him. “I beg you, your honor Satan Ivanitch, to be graciously pleased to make me a rich man.” “Certainly. Only for that you must give me up your soul! Before the cocks crow, go and sign on this paper here that you give me up your soul.” “Your honor,” said Fyodor politely, “when you ordered a pair of boots from me I did not ask for the money in advance. One has first to carry out the order and then ask for payment.” “Oh, very well!” the customer assented. A bright flame suddenly flared up in the mortar, a pink thick smoke came puffing out, and there was a smell of burnt feathers and sulphur. When the smoke had subsided, Fyodor rubbed his eyes and saw that he was no longer Fyodor, no longer a shoemaker, but quite a different man, wearing a waistcoat and a watch-chain, in a new pair of trousers, and that he was sitting in an armchair at a big table. Two foot men were handing him dishes, bowing low and saying: “Kindly eat, your honor, and may it do you good!” What wealth! The footmen handed him a big piece of roast mutton and a dish of cucumbers, and then brought in a frying-pan a roast goose, and a little afterwards boiled pork with horse-radish cream. And how dignified, how genteel it all was! Fyodor ate, and before each dish drank a big glass of excellent vodka, like some general or some count. After the pork he was handed some boiled grain moistened with goose fat, then an omelette with bacon fat, then fried liver, and he went on eating and was delighted. What more? They served, too, a pie with onion and steamed turnip with kvass. “How is it the gentry don’t burst with such meals?” he thought. In conclusion they handed him a big pot of honey. After dinner the devil appeared in blue spectacles and asked with a low bow: “Are you satisfied with your dinner, Fyodor Pantelyeitch?” But Fyodor could not answer one word, he was so stuffed after his dinner. The feeling of repletion was unpleasant, oppressive, and to distract his thoughts he looked at the boot on his left foot. “For a boot like that I used not to take less than seven and a half roubles. What shoemaker made it?” he asked. “Kuzma Lebyodkin,” answered the footman. “Send for him, the fool!” Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw soon made his appearance. He stopped in a respectful attitude at the door and asked: “What are your orders, your honor?” “Hold your tongue!” cried Fyodor, and stamped his foot. “Don’t dare to argue; remember your place as a cobbler! Blockhead! You don’t know how to make boots! I’ll beat your ugly phiz to a jelly! Why have you come?” “For money.” “What money? Be off! Come on Saturday! Boy, give him a cuff!”