The dinner, though short and hurried, was well provided with liquor, Ambrose complaining bitterly that, for such herrings—salt as Lot’s wife—the vodka was far too weak. Then they set to work again, and he quartered the beast, cutting off the parts fit for sausages; while Yagustynka, having unhinged a door and made it do duty for a table, placed the sides upon it, and was busy cutting them into flitches and salting them carefully. Just at that moment the smith came in; his face showed that he was fighting for self-control. “I was not aware,” he began, sarcastically, “that ye had bought so large a porker.” “Well, I have—and killed it too.” She felt somewhat frightened. “A fine beast. It must have cost you some thirty roubles.” He eyed it over scrutinizingly. “’Twere hard to find a pig so thickly lined with fat,” the old woman remarked, laughing and offering him the bacon to examine. “’Tis Boryna’s pig!” he suddenly burst out, unable any more to contain his rage. “A shrewd guess!” Yagustynka jeered; “why, to know whose it is, you need only to see the tail!” “And by what right have ye dared to slaughter it?” he cried indignantly. “No shouting, please. This is not a tavern.—By what right? Because Antek sent me word by Roch to kill it.” “And who is Antek to give orders here? Is the beast his?” “Most surely,” she replied: her fear had gone from her now. “No, it is ours!—For what ye have done, ye shall pay dear.” “In this matter I am not answerable to you!” “No?—To whom then?” “Peace! and hold your tongue. Here lies the sick man to whom it belongs.” “Which you, not he, will eat!” “But you, at any rate, shall not so much as smell it!” “Give me,” he said, changing his tone, “one-half of the carcass. Ye would not have me raise the devil, would ye?” “Not one trotter of it shall you have on compulsion!” “Then let me have a quarter—and a flitch thrown in—of your own free will.” “I will, if Antek orders me. Else you shall not get one bone.” “Antek! Antek!” he cried, again roused to fury. “Is it Antek’s, then? Are you raving?” “It is Father’s,” she said firmly, “but Antek is now in his place and disposes of all. Later, it shall be whose our Lord may will it to be.” “Let him dispose in jail of what he has! If he likes husbandry, he may play the husbandman down in Siberia, where he is to go!” he shrieked, foaming at the mouth. “He may go thither,” she retorted fiercely, though fear for Antek was stabbing at her heart; “but were you yet a greater Judas than you are, you would not gain one inch of land thereby.”