“Landlord,” said the deacon, “what do I owe you for my man’s dinner?”
“He had everything on the bill of fare, didn’t he?”
“Well ... I suppose he did.”
“Then it comes to a silver rouble.”
“Can’t you make it a bit less.”
“No, no, little father, we never bargain; we make all our little profit off the oats; the dinners cost us what we get for them.”
The deacon discontentedly took a silver rouble out of his pocket. Yeremèi, meanwhile, stood in the corner, equally discontented.
They had passed the town boundaries and got out into the open country two versts back, but the deacon remained perfectly silent. Yeremèi, anxious to know whether his master was still angry with him, ventured a question—
“And is there any kind of body grander than the archbishop?”
The deacon turned his head away in silence.