and he danced until he was out of breath. When he could not make another step, he called to those who stood outside “Now you may come in, now I will let you have your turn.”
But Bartos was by no means a gross tyrannical sort of giant. Never in his life had he ever challenged anyone, never in his life had he ever given the first blow, after that, if he gave one, it was scored in the popular memory. Nor was he the least at feud with the gentry in the public offices, only that there again he had a tongue in its proper place and lammed into them with words. He had no fear of persons, be they gentle or humble; of the gentry still less than of the humble.
He carried money for his neighbours to the public offices and into the city; who, pray, could take it into the town more securely, who, pray, could do their business for them better than Bartos. But God preserve the official who dared to touch him even with a harsh look! Or just fancy if they had threatened him with the clerks in the office. Four clerks might have come, and neither singly nor altogether would they have dared to forge upon him—perhaps they would have been afraid to receive him even in the lock-up house.
Once the neighbours drove into Prague with wheat, and took Bartos with them as cashier. Bartos stopped at the toll booth to pay the duty. How could the collector know that it was Bartos, the
