He threw her a paper rouble.
"Martin! Boehme!... Come back, the wine is in the summer-house."
But the pastor had got into his cart without his overcoat, and was driving out of the gateway.
"He is a madman," Adler observed to himself. He was not angry with the pastor, who frequently treated him to such scenes.
"These learned people always have a screw loose in their heads," he reflected, looking after the dust raised by the pastor's britzka. "If I were a learned man and had Boehme's income, Ferdinand would now be toiling in a technical college. It is a good thing he is not learned, either."
He turned round, glanced at the stable, where a groom was making a pretence of sweeping, sniffed in the smoke from the factory, looked at the loaded vans, and went into the office.
He ordered a clerk to credit Ferdinand's account with sixty thousand roubles, and wired him instructions to pay his debts and to come home at once.
When Adler left the office, the old German book-keeper, who wore a shade over his eyes and had sat on the same leather stool for many years, looked round suspiciously and whispered to the clerk:
"So we are going to 'economize' again. The young man has spent sixty thousand roubles, and we are going to pay for it."
In a quarter of an hour's time the rumour had reached the engine-house, and in an hour had spread all over the factory, that Adler was going to cut down the wages because his son had squandered a hundred thousand roubles. By the evening Adler knew all that was being said. Some threatened to break his bones, others that they would kill him or set fire to the factory. Some said they would leave, but these were shouted down; for where was one to go? The women wept and the men cursed Adler, invoking God's punishment on him. The cotton-spinner was satisfied. As long as the workpeople cursed they would do nothing worse. He could safely reduce their wages. Those who threatened were chiefly his most faithful men.