However, he happened upon him at once, sitting on the sacks of wheat, and flicking with his whip at the Jews’ poultry, which came running about near the bags out of which the horses were eating, while he made surly replies to the bargainers.
“I said seven, and seven it shall be.”
“I give six and a half: the wheat is damaged.”
“You scurvy dog! let me but fetch a blow at your ugly face, and it will be damaged enough: but my wheat is as good as good can be.”
“Perhaps; but it’s damp. … I’ll take it by measure, and at six roubles five zloty.”
“No. By weight, and at seven.—I have said.”
“But, my good farmer, why so angry? Buying or not buying, one may always try to bargain.”
“Then bargain away, if it amuses you.” And he paid no more heed to the Jews, who came opening the sacks one after another, to examine the wheat.
“Antek, I am just going to the scrivener’s. I shall be back in the twinkling of an eye.”
“What? With your complaint against the manor-folk?”
“Think you I’ll not resent the wrong done me?”
“Just get hold of the keeper, fasten him to a pine-trunk, and cudgel him till his ribs clatter: then you’ll have justice done!”
“Aye, and serve him right too; but the manor-folk must come in for their share,” he answered in a hard voice.
“Hand me over a zloty.”
“What for?”
“To drink a drop and eat a bit.”
“Always looking into your father’s purse! Have you no money of your own?”
Antek, furious, turned his back on his father, whistling derisively; and the old man, though very unwillingly, pulled out a zloty and gave it to him.
“Yes; coin your blood to money, and give it away to all!” he thought, as he pushed his way towards a large tavern at the corner, where many guests had come to eat. The scrivener lived in a tiny room in the courtyard. Clad only in his shirt, unwashed, unkempt, but with a cigar in his mouth, he was then sitting at a table near the window.—On a mattress in the corner a woman lay, with a greatcoat over her.
“Sit down, my good man!” He tossed some garments on to the floor off a chair which he offered to Boryna, who presently explained the whole business to him in detail.
“As sure as a Pater ends with Amen, you’ll get a verdict in your favour! What! A cow dead, and the boy frightened into an illness! We are bound to win!” He rubbed his hands, and looked about the table for some paper.
“But the boy is quite well.”
“All the same, he might have fallen ill: the keeper gave him a beating.”
“Not him, but a neighbour’s cowherd.”
“A pity; that would have been still better. But we shall word it so that it may seem both that the cow died, and that the boy had an illness. Let the manor-folk pay!”
“Surely. I want nothing but justice.”
“I’ll draw up your complaint instantly.—Franka, you sluggard!” he cried, kicking the woman on the mattress so hard that she lifted up her tousled head. “Fetch us vodka and something to eat!”
“I have not one kopek, Gutek; and they’ll give us nothing on trust, you know,” she grumbled, and, rising from her disorderly couch, yawned and stretched herself. She was a big woman, with a drunkard’s face, bruised and bloated, but the thin reedy voice of a baby.
The scrivener set to work, with noisy pen scratching the paper. He puffed at his cigar, blowing the smoke into Boryna’s face, as the latter was looking on. Now and then he paused to rub his freckled hands and turn his haggard pimply face towards Franka. He wore a great black moustache; his front teeth were broken, his lips livid.
The complaint was soon made out. It cost a rouble, and another for the stamp; and he agreed to present it at the court for three more.
Boryna willingly allowed the expenses incurred, feeling sure that the manor would have to pay them, with heavy damages besides.
“There must be justice in the world!” he cried, on departing.
“If we don’t win in the Communal Court, we shall try the Assembly; if not there, why then, the District Court, and then the Judgment Chamber: I won’t give in.”
“Why should I abandon what is mine?” he said, with fierce obstinacy. “And to whom? To those manor-folk, owners of forests and of fields without end? No!”
Such thoughts were filling his mind, as he went forth into the marketplace: but just as he passed the capmakers’ stalls, he met with Yagna.
There she stood, with one dark-blue cap on her head, cheapening another.
“See here, Matthias! this ‘yellow one’13 would have me believe this is a good cap: but no doubt he is lying.”
“A very nice cap. Is’t for Andrew?”
“It is: Simon’s is already bought.”
“Will it not be too small for him?”
“His head is just the size of mine.”
“What a well-favoured stable-boy you would make!”
“Ah! shouldn’t I?” she exclaimed, with a jaunty air, and cocking her cap on one side.
“I’d take you to my service directly!”
“Only my terms might prove much too high.” She laughed.
“For some, perhaps; not for me.”
“But I’d do no work in the fields.”
“Oh, I would do the work for you, Yagna!” he whispered, and the look he darted at her was so passionate that she shrank back in confusion, and paid for the cap without bargaining.
“Have you sold your cow?” he asked her, after a time, when he had become more master of himself, and overcome the sensation which had so suddenly gone to his head, like strong vodka.
“Yes, they bought her for the priest in Yerzov. Mother has gone with the organist, who wants to engage a farm-labourer.”
“Well then, let’s just go and take a drop of sweetened vodka together.”
“What’s that you say?”
“You are cold, Yagna; it will warm you somewhat.”
“Go with you for a drink? … Where could
