“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.