So I'd not be called a thief nor would they whip me.

And you too, brother, you must get sick with me." "No," answered the older, "we should all die: mother of grief and we of hunger." Crispin remained silent for a moment, then asked, "How much will you get this month ?" "Two pesos.

They're fined me twice." "Then pay what they say I've stolen, so that they won't call us thieves.

Pay it, brother!" "Are you crazy, Crispin?
Mother wouldn't have anything to eat.

The senior sacristan says that you've stolen two gold pieces, and they're worth thirty-two pesos." The little one counted on his fingers up to thirty-two.