“The clasps on the book are silver, sure enough.…” And he grinned from ear to ear, as if anticipating something pleasant.

Having spent the night in the garden near the ruins of the bath-house, which we had completely demolished in the course of the day, by noon of the following day we cleaned the well. Wet and muddy, we were sitting in the court-yard near the steps leading to the house, waiting to be paid off. We were talking to each other and picturing to ourselves the good dinner and supper in the offing. None of us had any desire to look further into the future.…

“Why the devil doesn’t the old witch come?” Syomka was impatient and indignant, but he spoke under his breath. “Has she croaked?”

“There he is, swearing again,” Mishka shook his head reproachfully. “And why should he swear? The old woman is the real thing, the god-fearing kind. But he has to swear at her. What a disposition the man has!”

“Smart, aren’t you?” his companion said, with a smirk. “You scarecrow!”

This pleasant conversation between friends was interrupted by the appearance of our employer. She came up to us, and holding out her hand with the money in it, said contemptuously:

“Take it, and clear out. I was going to have you saw up the planks for firewood, but you don’t deserve it.”

Deprived of the honor of sawing up the planks, a job we didn’t need now, we took the money without a word, and went off.

“Oh, you old hag!” began Syomka, as soon as we were beyond the gate. “That’s a good one! We don’t deserve it! The putrid toad! Go ahead and squeak over your book now!”

Putting his hand into his pocket, he pulled out two shining metal objects and showed them to us triumphantly.

Mishka halted, craning his neck inquisitively in the direction of Syomka’s upraised hand.

“You broke off the clasps?” he asked in astonishment.

“There they are. Silver ones! Even if he didn’t want them, a man would give a ruble for them.”

“What a fellow! When did you get the chance? You’d better hide them, out of harm’s way!”

“You bet I will.”

We walked on down the street in silence.

“Smart work,” Mishka muttered to himself, reflectively. “He went and broke them off! M-yes. But it’s a good book.…I’m thinking the old woman will be sore at us.”

“Why, no, the idea! She’ll call us back and tip us,” Syomka jested.

“What do you want for them?”

“Nine ten-kopeck pieces…that’s the rock-bottom price. I won’t take a kopeck less. They cost me more. Look—I broke my nail.”

“Sell them to me,” said Mishka timidly.

“To you? Want to make studs of them? Buy them! They’ll make a dandy pair, just to suit your mug!”