none; there is none," the beadle muttered gruffly. "It
is no use your. . ."

The service was over; Yegorushka walked out of the church in a
leisurely way, and began strolling about the market-place. He had
seen a good many villages, market-places, and peasants in his time,
and everything that met his eyes was entirely without interest for
him. At a loss for something to do, he went into a shop over the
door of which hung a wide strip of red cotton. The shop consisted
of two roomy, badly lighted parts; in one half they sold drapery
and groceries, in the other there were tubs of tar, and there were
horse-collars hanging from the ceiling; from both came the savoury
smell of leather and tar. The floor of the shop had been watered;
the man who watered it must have been a very whimsical and original
person, for it was sprinkled in patterns and mysterious symbols.
The shopkeeper, an overfed-looking man with a broad face and round
beard, apparently a Great Russian, was standing, leaning his person
over the counter. He was nibbling a piece of sugar as he drank his
tea, and heaved a deep sigh at every sip. His face expressed complete
indifference, but each sigh seemed to be saying:

"Just wait a minute; I will give it you."

"Give me a farthing's worth of sunflower seeds," Yegorushka said,
addressing him.

The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows, came out from behind the counter,
and poured a farthing's worth of sunflower seeds into Yegorushka's
pocket, using an empty pomatum pot as a measure. Yegorushka did not
want to go away. He spent a long time in examining the box of cakes,
thought a little and asked, pointing to some little cakes covered
with the mildew of age:

"How much are these cakes?"

"Two for a farthing."

Yegorushka took out of his pocket the cake given him the day before
by the Jewess, and asked him:

"And how much do you charge for cakes like this?"

The shopman took the cake in his hands, looked at it from all sides,
and raised one eyebrow.

"Like that?" he asked.

Then he raised the other eyebrow, thought a minute, and answered:

"Two for three farthings. . . ."

A silence followed.

"Whose boy are you?" the shopman asked, pouring himself out some
tea from a red copper teapot.

"The nephew of Ivan Ivanitch."

"There are all sorts of Ivan Ivanitchs," the shopkeeper sighed. He
looked over Yegorushka's head towards the door, paused a minute and
asked:

"Would you like some tea?"

"Please. .