“Not for seven days, did you say, sir?  You know, dear sir, or perhaps, indeed, you do not know, that when amongst each other we men have to wait for the settlement of an account, we expect something over and above the exact amount.  Interest we call it, my dear sir.”

“And you want me to give you something extra for waiting a week?” asked the dwarf.  “Pray, what do you expect?”

“Oh, dear sir, I leave it to you,” said the farmer.  “Perhaps you may add some trifle—­in the flour-bag, or not, as you think fit—­but I leave it entirely to you.”

“I will give you something over and above what you shall choose,” said the dwarf; “but, as you say, I shall decide what it is to be.”  With which he shouldered the flour-sack, and went his way.

For the next seven days, the farmer had no peace for thinking, and planning, and scheming how to get the most out of his one wish.  His wife made many suggestions to which he did not agree, but he was careful not to quarrel with her; “for,” he said, “we will not be like the foolish couple who wasted three wishes on black-puddings.  Neither will I desire useless grandeur and unreasonable elevation, like the fisherman’s wife.  I will have a solid and substantial benefit.”

And so, after a week of sleepless nights and anxious days, he came back to his first thought, and resolved to ask for his neighbour’s estate.

At last the night came.  It was full moon, and the farmer looked anxiously about, fearing the dwarf might not be true to his appointment.  But at midnight he appeared, with the flour-bag neatly folded in his hand.

“You hold to the agreement,” said the farmer, “of course.  My wife was witness.  I am to have anything under the sun that I ask for; and I am to have it now.”

“Ask away,” said the dwarf.

“I want neighbour Merryweather’s estate,” said the farmer.

“What, all this land below here, that joins on to your own?”

“Every acre,” said the farmer.

“Farmer Merryweather’s fields are under the moon at present,” said the dwarf, coolly, “and thus not within the terms of the agreement.  You must choose again.”

But as the farmer could choose nothing that was not then under the moon, he soon saw that he had been outwitted, and his rage knew no bounds at the trick the dwarf had played him.

“Give me my bag, at any rate,” he screamed, “and the string—­and your own extra gift that you promised.  For half a loaf is better than no bread,” he muttered, “and I may yet come in for a few gold pieces.”

“There’s your bag,” cried the dwarf, clapping it over the miser’s head like an extinguisher; “it’s clean enough for a nightcap.  And there’s your string,” he added, tying it tightly round the farmer’s throat till he was almost throttled.  “And, for my part, I’ll give you what you deserve;” saying which he gave the farmer such a hearty kick that he kicked him straight down from the top of the hill to his own back door.