Instantly he moved off, for he had descried Yagna’s face amongst the wagons; but before he got to her, she had disappeared, and was nowhere to be seen. So he went in search of Antek: no easy task, for the street from the swine-market to the great square was so thronged with carts, one after another and several abreast, that one could drive past only with the greatest care and difficulty. 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 court-yard. 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.”