"Both!" curtly replied Promtov
"Then perchance you know what a man ought to do when his backbone smarts and itches to that degree that he cannot sleep o' nights?"
"We do know," replied Promtov.
"What?"
Promtov went on chewing his bread for a long time, dried his hands on his rags, then pensively regarded the ceiling and, at last, observed decisively and even severely:
"Break up a loaf and get your old woman at night to rub your spine with the crummy part, and afterwards anoint it with hemp-oil and fat ... that's all!"
"What will come of it?" inquired the khokhol.[6]
[6] Singular of khokhli.
"Nothing," and Promtov shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing."