“No, I’m not one of them, but still—well, good-bye!”
“Good-bye!”
The miller started down the hill, and once more Kharko whistled after him. Although he did not whistle as insultingly as he had the year before, it flicked the miller on the raw.
“What do you mean by whistling, you rascal?” he asked, turning round.
“What, mayn’t a man even whistle?” Kharko retorted crossly. “I used to whistle when I was orderly to the Captain, and yet I mayn’t do it here!”
“After all, why shouldn’t he whistle?” the miller thought. “Only why does everything happen just as it did that evening?”
So he walked away down the hill and Kharko went on whistling, only more softly. The miller passed the garden where the cherry trees grew, and once more what seemed to be two great birds rose out of the grass. Once more a tall hat and a girl’s white blouse gleamed in the darkness and some one gave a smack that resounded through the bushes. Ugh, out upon you! But this time the miller did not stop to scold the shameless youngster; he was afraid he might get the very same answer he had had the year before. So our Philip went his way quietly toward the widow’s cottage.
There stood the little khata shimmering under the moon; the tiny window was winking, and the tall poplar seemed to be bathing in the moonlight. The miller stopped at the stile, scratched his head under his hat, and again threw his leg across the hedge.
“Knock—knock!”
“Okh, there is sure to be a fuss as there was last time, only worse,” thought the miller. “That infernal Kharko with his infernal talk told me just what to say, but now, when I remember what he told me, it doesn’t somehow seem right. It doesn’t sound common sense. But what will be, will be!” and he knocked again.