"What, still sitting—always sitting?" asked he, touching the peak of his cap in a way that left it uncertain whether he were fixing it on his head or bowing.
"And you—you are still on the prowl," echoed the captain, jerking out his lower jaw and making his beard wag in a way that might be taken for a bow by anyone not too exacting in these matters; it might also have been interpreted as the act of removing his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other.
"I've plenty of money; that's why I'm always on the go. Money needs putting out, so I'm obliged to keep it moving," says the shopkeeper in an aggravating voice to the other, screwing up his eyes slyly.
"Which means that you are the slave of money, and not money your slave," replies Kouvalda, resisting an intense desire to kick his enemy in the stomach.
"It's all the same either way where money is concerned. But if you have no money!"—and the shopkeeper looked at the captain with bold but feigned compassion, while his trembling upper lip showed large, wolfish teeth.
"Anyone with a head on his shoulders and with a good conscience can do without it. Money generally comes when the conscience begins to grow a little out-at-elbows. The less honesty the more money!"
"That's true, but there are some people who have neither honesty nor money."
"That describes you when you were young, no doubt," said Kouvalda innocently.
Petounnikoff wrinkles his nose, he sighs, closes his narrow eyes, and says, "Ah! when I was young, what heavy burdens I had to bear!"
"Yes, I should think so!"