"Upon my word, this is a merry, pleasant fellow; and we have met him just at the right moment," muttered Iermola. "While the gray is eating her hay, and Chwedko is finishing his onion and his glass of brandy, I can easily learn something about the potters in Mrozowica.--See here, brother," said he, drawing nearer the stranger, "won't you take a glass of brandy?"
"If you will pay for it, why shouldn't I? A Bohemian will hang himself for the sake of company."
"Iuk, give us a good drink of your best Bebnow brandy."
"Give it to us, Iuk, you pagan dog, do you hear?" said the young fellow from Mrozowica.
"You see," said Iermola, drawing nearer, "I am just going to Mrozowica to--"
"Well, take care to take two sticks with you, and sew up your pockets; for they are all thieves and rascals there."
"Ah, you must be joking."
"It is true; ask any one who has ever been there. There is not one honest man there."
"But how about the potters?"
"Bah! they are the worst of all."