"By St. George and St. Elias! I'll be revenged on all of you, and you the very first!" and livid with rage, grinding his teeth, shaking his fist, Vranic left the coffee-house, followed by the laughter of the by-standers, and the barking of the boys outside.
"He means mischief!" quoth the kafedgee.
"When did he not mean mischief," replied Markovic, "or his brother either?"
"Don't speak of his brother."
"Why, he's dead and buried."
"The less you speak of some dead people, the better," and the kafedgee crossed himself.
"He's a sly fox," said one of the men waiting to be shaved.
"Pooh! foxes are sometimes taken in by an old goose, as the story tells us."
Everybody knew the old story, but, as the barber was bent upon telling it, his customers were obliged to listen.
Once upon a time, there was a little silver-grey hen, that got into such an ungovernable fit of sulks, that she left the pleasant poultry-yard where she had been born and bred, and escaped on to the highway by a gap in the hedge. The reason of her ill-humour was that she had seen her lord and master flirt with a moulting old hatching hen, and she had felt ruffled at his behaviour.