THE COUNTING-HOUSE
so, Nikolai Eremyitch, let it be so,' he went on, blinking incessantly; 'two grey notes and a white for your favour, and there' (he nodded in the direction of the house), 'six and a half. Done, eh?'
'Four grey notes,' answered the clerk.
'Come, three, then.'
'Four greys, and no white.'
'Three, Nikolai Eremyitch.'
'Three and a half, and not a farthing less.'
'Three, Nikolai Eremyitch.'
'You're not talking sense, Gavrila Antonitch.' 'My, what a pig-headed fellow!' muttered the merchant. 'Then I'd better arrange it with the lady herself.'
'That's as you like,' answered the fat man; 'far better, I should say. Why should you worry yourself, after all? . . . Much better, indeed!'
'Well, well! Nikolai Eremyitch. I lost my temper for a minute! That was nothing but talk.'
'No, really, why . . .'
'Nonsense, I tell you. . . . I tell you I was joking. Well, take your three and a half; there's no doing anything with you.'
'I ought to have got four, but I was in too great a hurry—like an ass!' muttered the fat man.
'Then up there at the house, six and a half, Nikolai Eremyitch; the corn will be sold for six and a half?'
'Six and a half, as we said already.'
'Well, your hand on that then, Nikolai Erem-
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