arose as if from a single mouth, “Who is it for, prythee, who is it for?”
“The Lord God grant him heaven—old Loyka,” answered the sexton, and drew the key out of the door. “Oh Lord! Lord! and is it really he?” repeated the neighbours in great astonishment.
At this moment approached the spot, with a basket in his hand, Vena, who acted as messenger in the parish, dwelt at Loyka’s house, and moreover had the reputation of being a rascally impudent fellow. He also enquired, “Who is that for?”
“For your good old master, the pensioner,” answered the neighbours, sympathetically.
“For our—ho! ho! for our master, the pensioner—ho! ho!” sneered Vena, and burst out laughing. Although all held him for a fool, still it outraged their feelings when he laughed at such an occurrence.
“This is no laughing matter, Vena,” said they, reproachfully.
But something seemed to have tickled Vena’s fancy. “How, pray, isn’t it laughing matter when it is? Sure enough, he sent me into the town early this morning, look you, with a basket, look you here; that I might bring punch and rosolek, look you here; they keep it at the brewers. He set me on the road as far as the gate, put some small change into my hands and said, ‘buy there something for your own maw also, my Vena, that my flasks
O
