that people respected him, even when they did not understand.
When Osip with his tax book entered the starosta's hut, the superintendent, a thin, old, grey-whiskered man in a grey coat, sat at a table in the near corner and made notes in a book. The hut was clean, the walls were decorated with pictures from magazines, and in a prominent place near the ikon hung a portrait of Alexander of Battenberg, ex-Prince of Bulgaria. At the table, with crossed arms, stood Antip Siedelnikoff.
“This man, your honour, owes 119 roubles,” he said when it came to Osip's turn. “Before Holy Week he paid a rouble, since then, nothing.”
The superintendent turned his eyes on Osip, and asked —
“What's the reason of that, brother?”
“Your honour, be merciful to me . . .” began Osip in agitation. “Let me explain . . . this summer . . . Squire Liutoretzky . . . ‘Osip,’ he says, ‘sell me your hay. . . . Sell it,’ he says. . . . I had a hundred poods for sale, which the women mowed. . . . Well, we bargained. . . . All went well, without friction. . . .”
He complained of the starosta, and now and again turned to the muzhiks as if asking for support; his flushed face sweated, and his eyes turned bright and vicious.
