“Two thousand golden angels! I said nothing about two thousand golden angels,” said the rich man; “two thousand fiddlesticks!” said he. “Pooh! pooh! you must have been dreaming! See, here are two hundred silver pennies, and that is enough and more than enough for six drops of medicine.” “I want my two thousand golden angels,” said Simon Agricola. “You will get nothing but two hundred pennies,” said the rich man. “I won’t touch one of them,” said Simon Agricola, and off he marched in a huff. But Babo had kept his eyes open. Simon Agricola had laid down the vial upon the table, and while they were saying this and that back and forth, thinking of nothing else, Babo quietly slipped it into his own pocket, without any one but himself being the wiser. Down the stairs stumped the doctor with Babo at his heels. There stood the cook waiting for them. “Look,” said he, “my wife is sick in there; won’t you cure her, too?” “Pooh!” said Simon Agricola; and out he went, banging the door behind him. “Look, friend,” said Babo to the cook; “here I have some of the same medicine. Give me the two hundred pennies that the master would not take, and I’ll cure her for you as sound as a bottle.” “Very well,” said the cook, and he counted out the two hundred pennies, and Babo slipped them into his pocket. He bade the woman open her mouth, and when she had done so he poured all the stuff down her throat at once. “Ugh!” said she, and therewith rolled up her eyes, and lay as stiff and dumb as a herring in a box. When the cook saw what Babo had done, he snatched up the rolling-pin and made at him to pound his head to a jelly. But Babo did not wait for his coming; he jumped out of the window, and away he scampered with the cook at his heels. Well, the upshot of the business was that Simon Agricola had to go back and bring life to the woman again, or the cook would thump him and Babo both with the rolling-pin. And, what was more, Babo had to pay back the two hundred pennies that the cook had given him for curing his wife. [Illustration] The wise man made a cross upon the woman’s forehead, and up she sat, as well--but no better--as before. “And now be off,” said the cook, “or I will call the servants and give you both a drubbing for a pair of scamps.” Simon Agricola said never a word until they had gotten out of the town. There his anger boiled over, like water into the fire. “Look,” said he to Babo: “‘Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool.’ I want no more of you. Here are two roads; you take one, and I will take the other.” “What!” said Babo, “am I to travel the rest of the way alone? And then, besides, how about the fortune you promised me?” “Never mind that,” said Simon Agricola; “I have not made my own fortune yet.” “Well, at least pay me something for my wages,” said Babo. “How shall I pay you?” said Simon Agricola. “I have not a single groat in the world.” “What!” said Babo, “have you nothing to give me?” “I can give you a piece of advice.”