Outside, the bass-viols were grumbling, like the humming flight of a bumble-bee that has got into a room. The violin would suddenly shed forth strong loud notes, as of a bird calling its mate; or the cymbal set up a drumming quavering din: and then all would again be quiet. Kuba had made straight for the bar, behind which Yankel, the Jewish tavern-keeper, was sitting, in his skullcap and shirt-sleeves (for the weather was warm), stroking his grey beard, swaying to and fro, and reading out of a book he held close to his eyes. Kuba, taking thought, came forward step by step, counted his money over, scratched his head, and then stood still, till Yankel noticed him, and without interruption in his prayers and swaying motions, jingled the glasses once or twice. “One-eighth of a litre—but no water in it!” was his order at last. Yankel silently held his left hand out for the money, and throwing the verdigris-eaten coins into a tray, inquired: “In a glass?” “Not in a boot, I suppose!” Kuba returned. Withdrawing to the very end of the bar, he drank off the first glass, spat on the ground, and looked round the room; the second dispatched, he held the flask up to the light, saw it empty, and pounded on the bar with it. “Another!—And a packet of tobacco!” he ordered; more boldly now, for the vodka was filling him with pleasant warmth, and a peculiar sense of confidence. “Got your wages to-day, Kuba?” “Not likely. Is it New Year’s Day?” “Have a little rum?” “No. I don’t care.” He counted his money, and sorrowfully glanced at the rum-bottle. “But I’ll trust you; don’t I know Kuba?” “I dare not.—‘Who purchases on trust will soon not have a crust,’” he answered, dryly. Nevertheless, Yankel left the rum-bottle close at his elbow. He wanted not to take it, and meant to go out; but the rum had such a scent that he at last gave way, and took a long draught on the impulse of the moment. “This money, did you earn it in the forest?” Yankel inquired, with patient importunity. “Caught birds in a net; gave six to his Reverence. He gave me a _zloty_.” “A _zloty_ for six, did he? Why, I would have given you five kopeks for each of them.” “But—but——” cried Kuba, astounded, “are partridges kosher?” “Never mind about that; only bring me lots of them, and for every one you bring, you will get five kopeks of ready money. And the rum you have drunk will be thrown into the bargain. Is it well?” “What, Yankel! Five kopeks for each?” “My word is no idle wind. For those six partridges, Kuba, you would have got, not two-eighths of a litre of vodka, but four! together with rum, and a herring, and a roll, and a packet of tobacco. Do you understand?” “I do. Half a litre, and a herring, and ... I am not a fool, I can make it all out.—Quite true—Half a litre, and rum, and tobacco, and rolls, and one entire herring....” He was by this time somewhat fuddled by the fumes of the vodka. “Will you bring the birds to me, Kuba?”