After a little argument and persuasion the Chernoyárskaya night-watchman consented to sell me his rattle, as a curiosity, for the sum of ten cents: but he soon had reason to regret the transaction. No sooner had he parted with the insignia of office than the sharp-tongued and misanthropic postmistress, who was leaning against the court-yard gate, and whose face I could just make out by the glow of her cigarette, opened upon him a hot fire of sarcastic and contemptuous remarks. "A fine night-watchman you are!" she said with scornful irony. "What are you good for now? There was nothing of you before but your breeches and your rattle—and now you've sold your rattle!"
"I can make another to-morrow," replied the night-watchman in a deprecating tone.
"Make another!" retorted the postmistress contemptuously. "There 's no use in making another if you don't shake it oftener than you have to-night. Where have you been all night anyhow—drunk again with the priest?"
"Yei Bókhu matushka! [Before God, my little mother] I have n't taken a drop on my tongue to-night!" protested the night-watchman solemnly. "Of course you don't hear my rattle when you're asleep—God forgive you for what you say!" and the watchman, as if to appease the woman's wrath, began to help the Kírghis hostler harness the horses—but it was of no use.
"What are you trying to do now?" inquired the postmistress fiercely—"harness those horses up goose-fashion?[1] "Nyet brátushka" [No, my little brother], you may walk goose-fashion with the priest when you and he go on a spree, but you can't harness my horses goose-fashion. Go curl up in the sand somewhere until the Kabák[2] opens or the priest gets up. Now that you 've sold the best part of yourself for twenty kopéks you 're of no use to anybody. A night-wa-a-tchman! that sells his r-r-attle!! and harnesses a tróika goose-fashion!!!" she concluded with immeasurable and
