A rich merchant spent some days in the Village of Nasrudin. Although
he was miserly, people were respectful towards him.
   Nasrudin asked someone: ‘Why do you salute him every time he passes?
You never get a tip from him.’
   ‘You don’t understand: he is a merchant. That is something, isn’t it? 
Besides, we feel he might give us something, one day.’
   A week after the visitor had left, Nasrudin went to market. He bought
a dozen water-melons at one stall, then sold them at the next. He made
a loss on the transaction. Then he did the same again with something
else. When he haven round most of the stall-holders, he went to the tea-
house and airily ordered an expensive pink tea with whipped cream and
flavored with cardamoms. 
   Presently the teahouse began to fill with people, anxious to know what
had happened to Nasrudin. Someone asked him: ‘Mulla, why do you buy
things and sell them again regardless of price?’
   ‘How dare you ask me questions!’ roared the Mulla. ‘I am a merchant.
That is something, isn’t it? And I might give you something, one day!’