Kharko came out of the inn, and leaning against the door post, said calmly:
“Well, what is it? A fine thing you have found to show me! That’s a cloud, that is; let it alone!”
“Take another look at it! Is there any wind blowing?”
“Well, well, well! That is funny!” said the servant, perplexed. “It’s making straight for the city, too.”
And both men scratched their heads and craned their necks.
The same humming sounds came to their ears through the window as before; the miller caught a glimpse of lugubrious yellow faces, closed eyes, and motionless lips. The little Jews were crying and wriggling, and once more the miller seemed to see an alien presence in them weeping and praying for something unknown, long lost, and already half forgotten.
“Well, I must be going home,” said the miller, collecting his wits. “And yet I wanted to pay Yankel a few copecks.”
“That’s all right. I can take them for him,” said the servant, without looking at the miller.
But the miller pretended not to have heard this last remark. The sum was not so small that he cared to intrust it to a servant, much less to a vagabond soldier. With a sum like that the fellow might easily kick up his heels, as the saying is, and run away, not only out of the village, but even out of the District. If he did that, look for the wind in the fields, you would find it sooner than Kharko!
“Good night!” said the miller at last.