“Well, Luka Kuzmitch then, hang you, so be it.”

“To some people I am Luka Kuzmitch, but you should call me uncle.”

“Well, hang you then, uncle, you are not worth talking to! But there was a good thing I wanted to say. That’s how it happened, mates, I did not make much in Moscow; they gave me fifteen lashes as a parting present and sent me packing. So then I⁠ ⁠…”

“But why were you sent packing?” inquired one who had been carefully following the speaker.

“Why, it’s against the rules to go into quarantine and to drink tin-tacks and to play the jingle-jangle. So I hadn’t time to get rich in Moscow, mates, not worth talking about. And I did so, so, so want to get rich. I’d a yearning I cannot describe.”