"And so it is settled."
Uncle Piotr moved heavily in his chair.
"Now, Orphan, you have a place. This is your master." He turned to the master. "I want to tell you, sir, that the boy can read and write, and is not at all a stupid fellow. I am not saying this because I can't find a place for him, but because it is the truth. The boy is even very curious—"
"I have no need for curiosity," said the master shaking his head.
"He's a quiet sort. They call him Old Man in the village—that's the kind he is."
"We shall see," said the man with the bump on his forehead. He adjusted his glasses, scrutinized Yevsey's face closely, and added, "My name is Matvey Matveyevich."
Turning away, he took up a glass of tea, which he drank noiselessly. Then he rose and with a silent nod walked out.
Yevsey and his uncle now went to the yard, where they seated themselves in the shade near the stable. The blacksmith spoke to Yevsey cautiously, as if groping with his words for something unintelligible to him.
"You'll surely have it good with him. He's a quiet little old man. He has run his course and left all sorts of sins behind him. Now he lives in order to eat a little bite, and he grumbles and purrs like a satiated Tom-cat."
"But isn't he a sorcerer?" asked the boy.