AKOULÍNA. All right. [Exit].
PETER. Ah, but he's a loafer, that lad … no good at all. Won't stir a finger if he can help it.
ANÍSYA. You're so mighty brisk yourself. When you're not sprawling on the top of the oven you're squatting on the bench. To goad others to work is all you're fit for.
PETER. If one weren't to goad you on a bit, one'd have no roof left over one's head before the year's out. Oh what people!
ANÍSYA. You go shoving a dozen jobs on to one's shoulders, and then do nothing but scold. It's easy to lie on the oven and give orders.
PETER [sighing] Oh, if 'twere not for this sickness that's got hold of me, I'd not keep him on another day.
AKOULÍNA [off the scene] Gee up, gee, woo. [A colt neighs, the stamping of horses' feet and the creaking of the gate are heard].
PETER. Bragging, that's what he's good at. I'd like to sack him, I would indeed.
ANÍSYA [mimicking him] “Like to sack him.” You buckle to yourself, and then talk.
AKOULÍNA [enters] It's all I could do to drive 'em in. That piebald always will …