Jasiek moved up to the fire, for the cold was in his bones, and putting his herring on a stick began to toast it over the coals. 'Move up a bit,' he whispered to the beggar man, who had his feet on his wallet, and though quite blind, was drying at the fire the soaked strips he wore round his legs, and talking endlessly in a low voice to the woman by him; she was cooking something and arranging boughs under a tripod on which stood a pot.
Jasiek got warmer, and steam as from a bucket of boiling water went up from his long coat.
'You are badly soaked,' whispered the beggar, sniffing.
'I am,' said Jasiek in a whisper, shivering. The door creaked, but it was only the thin peasant returning.
'Who is that?' whispered Jasiek, tapping the beggar on the arm.
'Those? I don't know him; but those are silly fools going to Brazil.'
He spat.
Jasiek said not a word, but went on drying himself and moving his eyes about the room, where the people, apparently grown uneasy, now talked with increasing loudness, now fell suddenly silent, while every moment one of them went out of the inn, and returned immediately.
From the inner room the monotonous chant still reached them. A hungry dog crept out from nowhere to the fire and began to growl at the beggars, but getting a blow from a stick he howled with pain, settled himself in the middle of the room, and with a piteous look gazed at the steam rising from the pot.
Jasiek was getting warmer; he had eaten his herring and rolls, but still felt more sharply than ever that he wanted something. He minutely searched his pockets, but not finding even a farthing there, doubled himself together and gazed idly at the pot and the beams of the fire.
'You want to eat—eh?' asked the beggar woman presently.