“I made Roch take my place in the sacristy; the priest’s manservant is to blow the organ-bellows, and Magda will sweep out the church. I have arranged everything, so that you may not be disappointed. The priests will not begin hearing confessions till they have finished breakfast.—But how cold it is to-day!” he cried out querulously; “I feel it to the very marrow.” “Broiling at the fire, can you talk of the cold?” Yuzka cried out in amazement. “You are silly: I feel so cold within, that even my wooden leg’s quite numb!” “Ye shall soon have something to warm you.—Yuzka, soak a herring directly.” “Give it me salt as it is; nothing takes the salt out like vodka—when there’s enough of it.” “Ye’re always the same,” Yagustynka observed snappishly. “Should ye hear glasses jingle even at midnight, ye’d rise on the spot for a drink.” “Right, my good woman. But your tongue is very dry, is it not? you too would like to wet it in vodka, eh?” He laughed and rubbed his hands. “My ancient! I’ll drink glass for glass with you any day!” Here Hanka interrupted them; their continual hints and innuendoes about vodka were teasing her. “Very few people are going to church as yet,” she remarked, to change the subject. “’Tis early. They will presently come with a rush to get rid of their sins.” “Aye,” said Yagustynka, “to spend the time, hear something new, and prepare to sin again!” Here Yuzka’s shrill voice piped: “The girls were already preparing confessions yesternight.” “Because,” Yagustynka said, “they are ashamed to confess to their own priest.” “Better, old crone, ye sat in the church-porch and said your beads and did penance, than backbite your neighbours so!” “I will, Wooden Leg! when ye sit by my side there!” “Oh, I am in no hurry. I intend first to toll for you and put you to bed with a shovel!” The words enraged her. “Bait me not, or you’ll rue it!” she snarled. “My stick will ward off your bites; and ’twere pity to lose your last teeth!” She made no answer. Just then Hanka filled a glass, and drank to them both, and Yuzka brought a herring to Ambrose, who slapped it against his wooden leg, skinned it, broiled it over the coals, and ate it with relish. “To work! We have been dawdling too long!” he cried, taking off his coat, tucking up his shirt-sleeves, and giving his knife a last edge on his whetstone. Then, seizing a large club, used to mash potatoes, for the pig, he hastened out, everybody following him. Pete aided him, and the beast, though resisting with all its might, was dragged out into the yard. “Quick! the dish for the blood!” All stood round, eyeing its plump creamy sides and trailing belly, which the drizzle from the mists that filled the orchard was wetting fast. A few women stood outside the yard, and several children, eager to look on, had climbed the palings.