"Never mind 'my worship,' you can leave him out of it," said Ráby. "Didn't we sit beside each other at school, and you would pass me without a word? Tell me how things are going with you?"
The man looked round to left and right, and in his eyes there lurked a nameless fear.
"Well, as far as that goes," he began, "but don't let us talk here, it is not wise to discuss these things in the street."
Ráby dropped his hand. "Ah, you are afraid suspicion may rest on you if you are seen talking to me!"
"It is not that. But I fear, on the contrary, that it might be unpleasant for you, if you were seen talking to a mere carpenter. I am just going to look after my mates in the lower town who are putting new joists to the burned houses. May Heaven bless your efforts to help the poor people!" added the man in a lower voice.
"Good, I'll go with you," said Ráby, "it's all the same to me which way I take."
"But don't let yourself be drawn into talk with them. They are always ready to complain, and there are always people ready to repeat all that is said."
So they walked together down the street—the dapper sportsman, and the working-man in his leather apron.
Ráby well remembered the houses they passed, and their owners, and asked after the latter.
"Yes, they all live there still, but the houses no longer belong to them. The magistrate has bought one, the notary another, and Peter Paprika a third. The original owners are only there as tenants, and now they have put an execution in the houses."