"You work cheaply, and you buy dearly. Isn't it so?" cried the curly-headed fellow. "All wealth is accumulated from the money by which we are underpaid for our work. Let's take an example."
"Everybody's greedy," thought Yevsey. "How Masha snatched the beads yesterday! All are scoundrels. And the reason Zimin did not strike me was because he was afraid I would call the police. Ha! They drove me out, but they kept my presents. If they thought me a dirty fellow, they should have returned my presents, the skunks!"
Filling himself with the pleasant bitterness that comes from censuring people, he was carried away by it, and no longer heard or saw anything. Suddenly, however, a merry voice fell upon his ear.
"What, Yevsey Klimkov?"
He raised his head hastily, and wanted to rise, but was unable to do so. He saw standing before him the curly-headed orator, whom, however, he did not recognize.
"You don't know me? Yakov, your cousin."
He laughed, held out his hand to Yevsey, and seated himself opposite him at the table. His laughter enveloped Klimkov in a warm cloud of reminiscences—of the church, the quiet ravine, the fire, and the talks of the blacksmith. Silent, smiling in embarrassment, he carefully pressed his cousin's hand.
"I didn't recognize you."
"Of course!" exclaimed Yakov. "Your memory gets weak in the city. Various things creep upon you from all sides, so no place is left for the old. How are you getting along?"
"So, so."