"It was no good your coming, neighbor," he says to me, without rising, "no good at all! I don't belong here now!"
But when he sees that I have no intention of going away, he raises himself slowly.
"Nu, where am I to seat you?" he asks sadly.
I assure him that I can write standing.
"You will get nothing out of me! I am only waiting for a boat ticket—you see, I have sold everything, even my tools...."
"You are a mechanic?" I ask.
"A tailor."
"And what obliges you to emigrate?"
"Hunger."
And there was hunger in his face, in her face, and still more in the gleaming eyes of the children round the barrel.