"Your terms?" asked Ostap sharply. "Remember, I'm not from a funeral home."
"It's piecework.
At union rates."
Ostap frowned, which was very hard for him.
"But free meals as well," added the tubby man hastily. "And a separate cabin."
"All right," said Ostap, "I accept.
But I have a boy, an assistant, with me."
"I don't know about the boy.
There are no funds for a boy.
But at your own expense by all means.
He can live in your cabin."
"As you like.
The kid is smart.
He's used to Spartan conditions."
Ostap was given a pass for himself and for the smart boy; he put the key of the cabin in his pocket and went out onto the hot deck.
He felt great satisfaction as he fingered the key.
For the first time in his stormy life he had both a key and an apartment.
It was only the money he lacked.
But there was some right next to him in the chairs.
The smooth operator walked up and down the deck with his hands in his pockets, ignoring Vorobyaninov on the quayside.
At first Ippolit Matveyevich made signs; then he was even daring enough to whistle.
But Bender paid no heed.
Turning his back on the president of the concession, he watched with interest as the hydraulic press was lowered into the hold.
Final preparations for casting off were being made.
Agafya Tikhonovna, alias Mura, ran with clattering feet from her cabin to the stern, looked at the water, loudly shared her delight with the balalaika virtuoso, and generally caused confusion among the honoured officials of the lottery enterprise.
The ship gave a second hoot.
At the terrifying sound the clouds moved aside.
The sun turned crimson and sank below the horizon.
Lamps and street lights came on in the town above.
From the market in Pochayevsky Ravine there came the hoarse voices of gramophones competing for the last customers.
Dismayed and lonely, Ippolit Matveyevich kept shouting something, but no one heard him.
The clanking of winches drowned all other sounds.
Ostap Bender liked effects.
It was only just before the third hoot, when Ippolit Matveyevich no longer doubted that he had been abandoned to the mercy of fate, that Ostap noticed him.
"What are you standing there like a coy suitor for?
I thought you were aboard long ago.
They're just going to raise the gangplank.
Hurry up!
Let this citizen board.
Here's his pass."
Ippolit Matveyevich hurried aboard almost in tears.
"Is this your boy?" asked the boss suspiciously.
"That's the one," said Ostap.
"If anyone says he's a girl, I'm a Dutchman!"
The fat man glumly went away.
"Well, Pussy," declared Ostap, "we'll have to get down to work in the morning.
I hope you can mix paints.
And, incidentally, I'm an artist, a graduate of the Higher Art and Technical Workshops, and you're my assistant.
If you don't like the idea, go back ashore at once."
Black-green foam surged up from under the stern.