First Peasant. Now, there's a thing I wanted to ask you about. What, for example, be these mikerots she was illuding to erewhile? "They've infested the house with mikerots, with mikerots," she says. What is one to make of these same mikerots?
Jacob. Mikerogues, you mean! Well, it seems there is such a kind of bugs; all illnesses come from them, they say. So she says there are some of 'em on you. After you were gone, they washed and washed and sprinkled the place where you had stood. There's a kind of physic as kills these same bugs, they say. Second Peasant. Then where have we got these bugs on us?
Jacob (drinking his tea). Why, they say they're so small that one can't see 'em even through a glass.
Second Peasant. Then how does she know I've got 'em on me? Perhaps there's more of that muck on her than on me!
Jacob. There now, you go and ask her!
Second Peasant. I believe it's humbug.
Jacob. Of course it's bosh. The doctors must invent something, or else what are they paid for? There's one comes to us every day. Comes,—talks a bit,—and pockets ten roubles!
Second Peasant. Nonsense!
Jacob. Why, there's one as takes a hundred!
First Peasant. A hundred? Humbug!