"My father was from Wolhynia, and he lived only a very short time after coming here."
"Ah! that is a different matter," replied the potter, slowly sipping his brandy.
"And, you see, in my old age, I have taken it into my head to take up my old trade again," stammered Iermola, blushing and looking down.
Procope stared at him, then began rubbing his head and speaking in broken sentences.
"You want to take the bread out of my mouth, you wicked old man," he muttered in a menacing tone.
"Only listen to me," continued Iermola, much agitated; "instead of injuring your trade, perhaps it may be that I can help you to gain something. Do not be frightened without reason."
"All right, let me hear; tell me."
"You have no son; your daughter is married; and you have laid by a nice little pile of money. It seems to me that it is high time for you to take some rest. The clay you find about here is good for nothing. You are obliged to go a long distance to sell your pottery, for no one will buy it here; the quality is too poor."
"Come, come! look out; mind what you are saying," growled the angry potter, striking the table with his fist.
"Do not be angry, Procope; remember that I can do nothing without your assistance."