‘Our travellers were conducted into the principal room of this elegant establishment, where they found, seated round a boiling tea-urn, three merchants,—one grey-haired, one red-haired, and one dark-haired. Each of these was armed with a steaming tumbler; each of them sipped, smacked his lips, stroked his beard and sipped again the fragrant beverage. ‘The red-haired man was saying:—’ “I made, last summer, a splendid bargain: I had bought from a company of Samara-Tartars, some five hundred bags of prime quality, and had at the same time a similar quantity, which I purchased from a nobleman who was in want of money, but such dreadful stuff it was, that if it had not been for the very low price, I would never have thought of looking at it. What did I do? I mixed these two cargoes, and sold the whole lot to a brandy-contractor at Ribna, for prime quality.” “It was a clever speculation,” remarked the dark-haired. “A commercial trick!” added the grey-haired. ‘Whilst this conversation was proceeding, Vassily Ivanovitsch and Ivan Vassilievitsch had taken seats at a separate little table; they had ordered their tea, and were listening to what the three merchants were saying. ‘A poor looking fellow came in and took from his breast-pocket an incredibly dirty sheet of paper, in which were wrapped up bank-notes and some gold, and handed it over to the grey-haired merchant, who, having counted them over, said:’ “Five thousand, two hundred and seventeen roubles. Is it right?” “Quite right, Sir.” “It shall be delivered according to your wish.” ‘Ivan asked why the sender had not taken a receipt? ‘The red and dark-haired merchants burst out laughing; the grey-haired got into a passion.’ “A receipt!” he cried out furiously, “a receipt! I would have broken his jaw with his own money had he dared to ask me for a receipt. I have been a merchant now more than fifty years, and I have never yet been insulted by being asked to give a receipt.” “You see, Sir,” said the red-haired merchant, “it is only with noblemen that such things as receipts and bills of exchange exist. We commercial people do not make use of them. Our simple word suffices. We have no time to spare for writing. For instance, Sir: here is Sidor Avdeievitsch, who has millions of roubles in his trade, and his whole writing consists of a few scraps of paper, for memory’s sake, Sir.” “I don’t understand that,” interrupted Ivan Vassilievitsch. “How could you, Sir? It is mere commercial business, without plan or _façade_. We ourselves learn it from our childhood: first as errand-boys, then as clerks, till we become partners in the business. I confess it is hard work.” Upon this text Ivan preaches a ‘Young Russia discourse.’