The Antelopeans got up at sunrise but didn’t reach the nearest village until 4 P.M. Panikovsky traipsed behind the others the whole way.
He limped a bit.
Hunger gave his eyes a cat-like gleam, and he complained incessantly about his fate and his captain.
Upon entering the village, Ostap instructed the crew to stay put and wait for him at Third Street, while he himself went to the village council on First Street.
He came back fairly quickly.
“Everything is taken care of,” he said cheerfully. “They’ll give us a place to stay and dinner.
After dinner, we’ll luxuriate in the hay.
Milk and hay, remember?
In the evening, we’re putting on a show.
I already sold it for fifteen rubles.
I have the money.
Shura!
You’re going to have to recite something from your reader, I’ll be showing anti-clerical card tricks, and Panikovsky . . .
Where’s Panikovsky?
Where on earth did he go?”
“He was here just a moment ago,” said Kozlevich.
But then the Antelopeans, who were standing near a wattle fence, heard a goose honking and a woman shrieking behind it. White feathers flew, and Panikovsky ran out onto the street.
Apparently, this time his toreador’s hand had betrayed him, and, in defending himself, he had hit the bird the wrong way.
He was being chased by a woman who was wielding a piece of firewood.
“A wretched, miserable woman!” screeched Panikovsky, racing out of the village at full speed.
“What a blabbermouth!” exclaimed Ostap, not hiding his frustration. “The bastard just killed our show.
Let’s get out of here before they take the fifteen rubles back.”
Meanwhile, the furious owner of the goose caught up with Panikovsky and managed to smack him right on the spine with the log.
The violator of the pact fell to the ground, but then immediately jumped up and took off incredibly fast.
Having completed this act of retribution, the woman turned around and headed back, satisfied.
Running past the Antelopeans, she brandished the log at them.
“Our artistic career is over,” said Ostap, hurrying out of the village. “The dinner, the night’s rest—everything’s ruined.”
They only caught up with Panikovsky a couple of miles later.
He was lying in a ditch, complaining loudly.
He was pale from exhaustion, fear, and pain, and his numerous old-man’s splotches were gone.
He was so pitiful that the captain decided against the punishment he had been planning for him.
“So they whacked Alyosha on his mighty back!” said Ostap, walking past him.
Everyone looked at Panikovsky with disgust.
And again he traipsed behind the others, moaning and babbling:
“Wait for me, not so fast . . .
I’m old, I’m sick, I don’t feel well!
Goose!
Drumstick!
Neck!
Femina!
Wretched, miserable people!”
But the Antelopeans were so used to the old man’s laments that they paid no attention.
Hunger forced them to press on.
Never before had they been in such a tough and uncomfortable spot.
The road went on and on, endlessly, and Panikovsky was falling farther and farther behind.
The friends had already descended into a narrow golden valley, but the violator of the pact was still silhouetted against the greenish twilight on the hill crest.
“The old man has become impossible,” said the hungry Bender. “I’ll have to sack him.
Shura, go and drag that malingerer here!”
Balaganov reluctantly went off to do the chore.
As he was climbing up the hill, Panikovsky’s silhouette disappeared from view.