“Serozha, boy, look, surely that’s for us!” said Lodishkin suddenly, staring upwards towards the cliff.
Along the downward path they saw that same gloomy-looking yard porter in the rose-coloured blouse with the speckled pattern, waving his arms and crying out to them, though they could not make out what he was saying, the same fellow who, a quarter of an hour ago, had driven the vagabond troupe from the villa.
“What does he want?” asked grandfather mistrustfully.
IV
The porter continued to cry, and at the same time to leap awkwardly down the steep path, the sleeves of his blouse trembling in the wind and the body of it blown out like a sail.
“O-ho-ho! Wait, you three!”
“There’s no finishing with these people,” growled Lodishkin angrily. “It’s Artoshka they’re after again.”
“Grandfather, what d’you say? Let’s pitch into him!” proposed Sergey bravely.
“You be quiet! Don’t be rash! But what sort of people can they be? God forgive us....”
“I say, this is what you’ve got to do...,” began the panting porter from afar. “You’ll sell that dog. Eh, what? There’s no peace with the little master. Roars like a calf: ‘Give me, give me the dog....’ The mistress has sent. ‘Buy it,’ says she, ‘however much you have to pay.’”