“I have to go to the old man,” said Foma, wrinkling his face.
“Chance it!”
“I don’t feel like going. He’ll start to lecture me.”
“Then don’t go!”
“But I must.”
“Then go!”
“Why do you always play the buffoon?” said Foma, with displeasure, “as though you were indeed merry.”
“By God, I feel merry!” exclaimed Yozhov, jumping down from the table. “What a fine roasting I gave a certain gentleman in the paper yesterday! And then—I’ve heard a clever anecdote: A company was sitting on the sea-shore philosophizing at length upon life. And a Jew said to them: ‘Gentlemen, why do you employ so many different words? I’ll tell it to you all at once: Our life is not worth a single copeck, even as this stormy sea! ‘”
“Eh, the devil take you!” said Foma. “Good-bye. I am going.”
“Go ahead! I am in a fine frame of mind to-day and I will not moan with you. All the more so considering you don’t moan, but grunt.”