A couple of long-eared steeds were also meditating in the shade of the garden paling, stretching out their necks for the overhanging sprays of barberry, just out of their reach. Their riders were seated at the table, under the acacia, with their fur-lined "bundas" slung over their shoulders, inside out, despite the sweltering weather. In fact, they wore them for shade. As they tippled away, drinking cheap acid stuff out of green glasses, they hummed an endless shepherd's song, monotonous and wearisome. Both were shepherds, whose steed is the donkey.
Sándor Decsi sat down at the further end of the bench, placed his cudgel on the table, and studied the glittering clouds looming heavy on the horizon, and the dark rim of earth beneath. A great yellow pillar rose swirling in one quarter—the whirlwind. Meanwhile the shepherds sang:
"When the shepherd takes his glass,
Sad and mournful grows his ass.
Cheer up, little donkey, grey!
Behind the flock we'll ride away."
This was too much for the csikós to stand.
"See, that's enough, Pista!" he snapped. "For goodness' sake stop that doleful ditty, and get on your grey donkey and trundle after your flock before you're too tipsy to move."
"Dear, dear! Sándor Decsi does seem upset to-day!"
"I'll upset you worse if you try aggravating me!" said the csikós, and rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. Now he was "ready" for anyone who crossed his path.
The shepherds whispered. Well they knew the puszta rule that when a csikós sits at a table a shepherd may only squat down there with his express permission. If he says, "Get out!" why then the shepherd has to go.
One of them rapped on the table with the bottom of his glass.
"We had better pay, the storm is coming."