"She—seems to be annoyed, mates," observed Mishka, smiling penitently.
Semka scratched his back, yawned, and looking after the old lady, who, without turning round, was walking away down the narrow path, said reflectively—
"The clasps are silver, no mistake," and he gave a broad smile, as if enjoying some pleasant prospect.
Having spent the night in the garden by the ruins of the bath-house, which we had finished pulling down that day, towards noon of the next we cleaned out the well, got soaked in the water, smeared all over with mud, and were sitting in the yard by the porch in the expectation of our wages, talking to each other and anticipating a good dinner and supper in the near future; to look farther ahead we none of us were inclined.
"Why the devil doesn't that old hag come?" said Semka impatiently, but in a low voice.
"Just listen to him!" said Mishka reproachfully, shaking his head. "Now, what on earth is he swearing for? She's a real godly old lady. And he swears at her. What a disposition!"
"We are clever, aren't we? You great scarecrow!"
This pleasant and interesting conversation of friends was interrupted by the appearance of the old lady. She came up to us, and holding out her hand with the money in it said scornfully—
"There, take it and go along. I wanted to give you the wash-house planks to break up for firewood, but you are not worth it."
Unhonoured with the task of breaking up the wash-house planks, which, however, we were not in need of now, we took the money in silence and went.