Shiryàlov. About the Armenian.
Antìp. No; what is it?
Shiryàlov. Eh! It’s as good as a play. (Laughs, moves his chair nearer, and speaks in a whisper.) Last year, my good sir, this Armenian came to the town with silk to sell; and he got playing ducks and drakes with his money, just like my Sènka. People began to talk about him in the town—you know how ... and I’d got I O U’s of his for fifteen thousand. It’s a bad business, thinks I. There was no getting rid of them in the town; everybody smelled a rat. Just about that time our manufacturer turned up; his factory’s in a town some way off, you know. I went straight to him, before he’d heard about it; and what do you think, sir? Got rid of them all in a lump!
Antìp. Well, and what was the end of it?
Shiryàlov. Just twenty-five kopecks. (Laughs.)
Antìp. No? Really? That’s capital! (Laughs.)
Shiryàlov. But Sènka’s not like that; no, no, sir, not that sort at all. Verily the Almighty chastises me in my son! He keeps company with the Lord knows what sort of rag-tag-and-bobtail (puts down cup), with people not fit to speak to....
Stepanìda. Another cup?
Shiryàlov. No more, little mother, no more.
Stepanìda. Without ceremony——