Syery was being wasted, in vain, this year also. He had sat at home all winter long, with careworn countenance, without light, cold and hungry. During the Great Fast (Lent), he had managed somehow or other to get a place with Rusanoff, near Tula: no one in his own neighbourhood would any longer give him a place. But before the month was out, Rusanoff’s establishment had become more repulsive to him than a bitter radish.
“Oi, young fellow!” the manager once remarked to him. “I can see right through you: you are picking a quarrel so that you can take to your heels. Here, you dog, here’s your money in advance, and now be off with you into the bushes!”
“Perhaps some sort of vagabond might take himself off, but not me,” retorted Syery sharply.
But the manager did not understand the hint. And it became necessary to adopt more decisive means. One day Syery was set to hauling in some husks for the cattle. He went to the threshing-floor and began to load a cart with straw. The manager came along:
“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.”