“Fine gentleman, allow us to explain,” began the old man delicately.
“No explanations whatever! March!” roared the lackey in a hoarse, angry whisper.
His whole fat face turned purple, and his eyes protruded to such a degree that they looked as if they would suddenly roll out and run away like wheels. The sight was so dreadful that grandfather involuntarily took two steps backward.
“Put the things up, Sergey,” said he, hurriedly jolting the organ on to his back. “Come on!”
But they had not succeeded in taking more than ten steps when the child began to shriek even worse than ever:
“Ai-yai-yai! Give it me! I wa-ant it! A-a-a! Give it! Call them back! Me!”
“But, Trilly!... Ah, God in heaven, Trilly; ah, call them back!” moaned the nervous lady. “Tfu, how stupid you all are!... Ivan, don’t you hear when you’re told? Go at once and call those beggars back!...”
“Certainly! You! Hey, what d’you call yourselves? Organ grinders! Come back!” cried several voices at once.
The stout lackey jumped across the lawn, his side-whiskers waving in the wind, and, overtaking the artistes, cried out:
“Pst! Musicians! Back! Don’t you hear, friends, you’re called back?” cried he, panting and waving both arms. “Venerable old man!” said he at last, catching hold of grandfather’s coat by the sleeve. “Turn the shafts round. The master and mistress will be pleased to see your pantomime.”