“Didn’t I tell you, in good plain Russian, to load up with husks?” “’Tis not the right time to load them,” replied Syery firmly. “Why not?” “Sensible farmers give husks for dinner, not at night.” “And how do you come to be a teacher?” “I don’t like to starve the cattle. That’s all there is to my being a teacher.” “But you are hauling straw.” “One must know the proper time for everything.” “Stop loading this very minute.” Syery turned pale. “No, I won’t stop my work. I can’t stop my work.” “Hand me over that fork, you dog, and get out, lest worse happen.” “I’m no dog, but a baptized Christian man. When I’ve driven in this load, I’ll get out. And I’ll go for good.” “Well, brother, that’s not likely! You’ll go away, and pretty soon you’ll be back again--and get locked up in the county jail.” Syery leaped from the cart and hurled his pitchfork into the straw: “I’m going to be locked up, am I?” “Yes, you are!” “Hey, young fellow, see that you don’t get locked up yourself! As if we didn’t know something about you! The master has nothing good to say about you, either, brother--” The manager’s fat cheeks became suffused with dark blood, his eyeballs protruded until they seemed all whites. With the back of his wrist he thrust his peaked cap over on the nape of his neck and, drawing a deep breath, he rapidly ejaculated: “A--ah! So that’s the way of it! Hasn’t a good word to say of me? Tell me, if that’s the case--why not?” “I have nothing to say,” mumbled Syery, feeling his legs instantaneously grow cold with fear. “Yes, you have, brother: you’re talking nonsense--you’ll tell!” “Well, and what became of the flour?” suddenly shouted Syery. “The flour? What flour?” “The stolen flour. From the mill.” The manager seized Syery by the collar in a death-like grip, fit to suffocate him, and for the space of a moment the two stood stock still. “What do you mean by it--grabbing a man like that, by his shirt?” calmly inquired Syery. “Do you want to choke me?” Then, all of a sudden, he began to squeak furiously: “Come on, thrash me, thrash while your heart is hot!” And with a jerk he wrenched himself free and seized his pitchfork. “Come on, men!” the manager yelled, although there was no one anywhere in the vicinity. “Help the manager! Hearken to this: he tried to stab me to death, the dog!” “Don’t come near me, or I’ll break your nose,” said Syery, balancing his pitchfork. “Don’t forget, times are not what they used to be!” But at this point the manager made a wide sweep with his arm, and Syery flew headlong into the straw.