Compounded Interest
Nasruddin went to the town market, where he proceeded to buy too much for a scrawny buzzard like himself to schlep all the way back home, so he looked around for a porter.
“You,” called Nasruddin to the first one he saw, a burly, bearded man with several tattoos, “I will hire you to take this sack and lug it back to my house for me.”
“May I be your sacrifice, Mullah effendi. Where is your house, exactly, sir?”
“Not so fast,” Nasruddin said, cringing a little. “For all I know, you may be a ruffian, or even a burglar. Do you think I should trust you with the address? Just grab the bag and follow me.”
“As you wish, my kind sir.”
The bearish porter hefted the sack upon his back and dutifully followed the Mullah through the bazaar throngs. Within minutes, though, Nasruddin became separated from the porter. Quickly he retraced his steps, but try as he might Naruddin could not locate the fellow, or his purchases.
A week later Nasruddin was walking in the bazaar with his brother, when Selim pointed out the brawny porter. “Isn’t that the man you described, who carried your sack last week from the market?”
Nasruddin nodded silently to confirm that this was indeed that porter, then turned on his heels and started off in a fright out of the bazaar. Selim followed, calling to him, “Nasruddin, where are you running? Why are you hiding? Isn’t this the man you were looking for all week long? Aren’t you going to confront him and get your sack and everything in it that you bought?”
Nasruddin paused long enough to call back, “No way! I have to hide from him. If he sees me now, no doubt he’ll want to charge me for carrying my things for the whole week — plus interest!”
