"I was drinking tea . . . tea," he brought out, stiU laughing, "I drank vo . . . vodka!"
And he started telling a long story about how he had been drinking tea and vodka with passing carters at the tavern, and as he talked, he kept pulling matches, to- bacco, pretzels out of his pocket.
"Shwedish matches—no less! Psh!" he was saying, striking matches one after another and lighting a ciga- rette. "Shwedish matches, real ones! Look!"
Yefrem was yawning and scratching himself, but sud- denly he jumped to his feet as though something bit him, lifted up his shirt and began feeling his bare chest, then, stomping about the bench like a bear, he went through his rags, looked under the platform, felt his chest again.
"The money is gone!" he exclaimed.
Yefrem stood awhile motionless and stared at the platform, then began searching again.
"Heavenly Mother, the money is gone! D'you hear?" he turned to Kuzma. "The money is gone!"
Kuzma was carefully examining the picture on the box of matches and held his peace.
"Where's the money?" asked Yefrem, taking a step toward him.
"What money?" drawled Kuzma in an offhand man- ner, scarcely opening his mouth and not taking his eyes off the box.
"The money . . . the money I kept in my bosom! . . ."
'Why pester me? If you've lost it, look for it!"
"Where can I look? Where is it?"
Kuzma glanced at Yefrem's purple face and grew purple himself.
"What money?" he shouted, jumping up.
"The money! The twenty-six rubles!"
"Have I taken it? He plagues me, the dirty dog!"
"Don't call me dirty dog! You tell me where the money is!"
"Did I take your money? Did I take it? You tell me: did I? When I get through with you, damn you and your money, you won't know your own father and mother!"
"If you didn't take it, why do you turn away your mug? It was you took it! Besides, where did you get the money to buy tobacco, and booze all night at the tav- ern? You're a foolish fellow, you're cracked. Is it me you done wrong? You done God wrong!"
"Did I . . . take it? When did I take it?" Kuzma shouted in a high squeaky voice, then he swung his arm and hit Yefrem on the face. "There you are! You want some more? I don't give a damn that you're a man of God!"
Yefrem merely shook his head and, without saying a word, began to pull on his boots.
"What a crook!" Kuzma went on shouting, getting more and more excited. "You drank up the money, and now you're blaming it on others, you dirty dog! I'll have
the law on you! I'll see that you cool your heels in the
lockup for trying to frame me!"
"You didn't take it, so keep quiet," Yefrem said mildly.
"Here, search mel"
"If you didn't take it ... why should I search ^oui' You didn't take it, well and good . , . No use shouting, you cannot shout down God . . ."
Yefrem put on his boots and went outdoors. When he returned, Kuzma, still flushed, was sitting at the win- dow, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands.
"The old devil," he grumbled. "There's plenty of your sort riding about, plaguing people. You've come to the wrong man, brother! You won't pull the wool over my eyes! I know all these tricks myself. Send for the Elder!"
"What for?"
"To draw up charges! We'll go to the courthouse. Let them judge between us!"
"Why should they judge between us! It's not my money, it's God's . . . God will do the judging."
Yefrem said his prayers and, taking the box and the icon, left the cottage.
An hour later the cart was entering the forest. The village with its flattened church, the meadow, and patches of rye were already left behind, wrapped in light morning mist. The sun had risen, but it was still hidden by the forest and only gilded the edges of the clouds facing eastward. Kuzma followed the cart at some distance, He looked like an innocent man who had been terribly wronged. He wanted very much to talk, but kept quiet, waiting for Yefrem to begin.
"I don't want to have a row with you, or you'd get it from me," he dropped, as though talking to himself. 'Td show you what comes of trying to frame people, you bald devil . ,
Another half-hour passed in silence. The man of God, who was saying his prayers as he walked, started cross- ing himself rapidly, drew a deep sigh and climbed into the cart to fetch some bread.
"When we get to Telibeyevo," began Kuzma, "our justice of the peace lives there. Hand your complaint to him!"
"You're talking rot. What's the justice of the peace to do with it? Is it his money? It's God's money. You're answerable to God."
"You keep on saying God's! God's! Like a crow. If I stole it, let them me; if I didn't steal it, you should get it in the neck for false charges."
"I got no time to hang around courts!"
"So you don't care about the money?"
"Why should I care? It ain't my money, it's God's."
Yefrem spoke reluctantly, calmly, and his face wore a dispassionate, unconcerned expression, as if he really did not care about this money or had forgotten the theft. Such indifference toward the loss and the crime seemed to nonplus and irritate Kuzma. It was incom- prehensible to him. It is natural when an offense is countered by cunning or force, when it leads to a struggle which turns the offender into one offended. If Yefrem had acted like an ordinary human being, that is, if he had taken umbrage, started a fight, lodged a complaint, if the justice of the peace had sentenced the accused to prison or dismissed the charge against him for lack of evidence, Kuzma would have quieted down. But now, as he walked behind the cart, he had the look of a man who missed something.
"I didn't take your money!" he said.
"You didn't take it, so well and good."
"When we get to Telibeyevo, I'll call the Elder. Let him . • . look into the matter . . ."
"There's nothing to look into. It ain't his money. And you'd better take yourself off, brother. Go your ways! I've had enough of you!"
For a long time Kuzma kept casting sidelong glances at Yefrem, trying to guess what he was thinking about, what terrible plot he was hatching, and finally he de- cided to tack about.
"Hey, you peacock, there's no having any fun with you, you get sore so easy. Here, here, take your money! It was a joke."
Kuzma drew several ruble bills from his pocket and handed them to Yefrem. The latter was neither sur- prised nor gladdened. It was as though he expected it. He took the money and, without a word, stuck it in his pocket.
"I just wanted to have some fun with you," Kuzma continued, looking searchingly into Yefrem's dispassion- ate face. "I reckoned it would scare you. I thought I'd give you a scare and return the money in the morning . . . Altogether there was twenty-six rubles, and I just gave you ten, or nine. The carters took the rest • . • Don't be sore, grandfather . . . It wasn't me drank it up, but them . • • I swear to God!"
"Why should I be sore? It's God's money . • . It wasn't me you wronged, but the Queen of Heaven."
"Maybe I drunk up a ruble, no more."
"What's that to me? Take it and drink it all up . • . A ruble, a kopeck—it's all the same to God. You'll have to answer for it just the same."
"But don't get sore, grandfather. Please don't get sore! Don't!"
Yefrem said nothing. Kuzma began blinking and his face assumed a childishly tearful expression.
"Forgive me, for Christ's sake!" he said, looking im- ploringly at the back of Yefrem's neck. "Don't take of- fense, uncle. I was joking."
"Oh, you're plaguing me!" said Yefrem with irrita- tion. 'Tm telling you: it's not my money! Pray to God he should forgive you, it's none of my business!"
Kuzma gazed at the icon, at the sky, at the trees, looking for God, as it were, and an expression of terror distorted his face. Under the influence of the forest si- lence, the icon with its austere colors, and Yefrem's dis- passionate attitude, which was so unusual and inhuman, he felt alone, helpless, abandoned to the mercies of a terrible, wrathful Deity. He ran in front of Yefrem and looked into his eyes, as though to assure himself that he was not alone.