And then began such a running fire of witty sayings, jests, comic tales, and joyous banter, that they all shook with laughter. In this field, Ambrose was the recognized leader, and chaffed his hearers to their very faces with so much humour and fun that they were like to split their sides. Amongst the women, Vachnikova yielded to none for drollery; she played first fiddle in that respect, with the Voyt for bass-viol, so far as his official dignity permitted. The musicians sawed away as hard as they could, and scraped out the liveliest tunes they had; and the dancers were shuffling along as fast, and shouting, and screaming, and tapping with nimble heels. Blithe and delighted, they had forgotten the rest of the world, when one of them chanced to notice Yankel standing outside in the passage. At once they pulled him into the room. The Jew took off his cap, with amicable bows and salutations to all present, and taking no notice of the nicknames showered upon him. “Yellow one!—Unchristened one!—Son of a mare!” “You be quiet there!” cried the Voyt. “Let us treat him! Here, a glass of the best vodka!” “I was passing along the road, and wanted to see how you husbandmen divert yourselves.—God reward you, Mr. Voyt.—I’ll take a drop of vodka—why should I not?—to the health of the newly-wedded pair!” Boryna raised the bottle and invited Yankel, who, after wiping the glass with the skirt of his capote, covered his head, and tossed off one glass, followed by a second. “Stay a bit, Yankel: it will not make you unclean,” they cried out in a merry vein. “Here, musicians, play us the Jewish dance, and Yankel will caper to it.” “Yes, I may dance; why not? ’Tis no sin.” But ere the players had understood what was wanted of them, Yankel slipped quietly into the passage, and vanished in the yard. He had come to get back his gun. They scarce noticed his exit. Ambrose had all the time gone on with his entertainment, to which Vachnikova contributed a violoncello accompaniment, so to speak. And he continued until supper-time, when the music ceased, the tables were pushed forward, and the clatter of dishes was heard: yet they still listened and he still held forth. Boryna invited them to sup, but without effect. Yagna asked them again and again. The Voyt only got her into the circle, made her sit down by him, and held her by the hand. It was Yasyek (nicknamed Topsy-turvy) who bellowed out: “Come, good folk, and set to: the dishes are cooling.” “Hold your tongue, blockhead, or lick the dishes with it.” “Old Ambrose! You are lying like a gipsy, and fancy we don’t know it!” “Yasyek, take what folk put into your mouth: you’re good at that. But leave me alone, you are no match for me!” “No match! Just you try, then!” the foolish lad shouted. He thought Ambrose meant fighting. “An ox could do all you can ... or more!” “Because you bear his Reverence’s night-vase, Ambrose, you think none has wit but you.”