"And they're for sale?"
"Yes."
"At what price?"
"No price yet.
They're up for auction."
"Aha!
Today?"
"No.
The auction has finished for today.
Tomorrow at five."
"And they're not for sale at the moment? "
"No.
Tomorrow at five."
They could not leave the chairs at once, just like that.
"Do you mind if we have a look at them?" Ippolit Matveyevich stammered.
The concessionaires examined the chairs at great length, sat on them, and, for the sake of appearances, looked at the other lots.
Vorobyaninov was breathing hard and kept nudging Ostap.
"Take your hat off to me, Marshal!"
Ippolit Matveyevich was not only prepared to take his hat off to Ostap; he was even ready to kiss the soles of his crimson boots.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow," he kept saying.
He felt an urge to sing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
VOTING THE EUROPEAN WAY
While the friends were leading a cultured and edifying way of life, visiting museums and making passes at girls, the double-widow Gritsatsuyev, a fat and feeble woman, was consulting and conspiring with her neighbours in Plekhanov Street, Stargorod.
They examined the note left by Bender in groups, and even held it up to the light.
But it had no watermark, and even if it had, the mysterious squiggles of the splendid Ostap would not have been any clearer.
Three days passed.
The horizon remained clear.
Neither Bender, the tea strainer, the imitation-gold bracelet, nor the chair returned.
These animate and inanimate objects had all disappeared in the most puzzling way.
The widow then decided to take drastic measures.
She went to the office of the Stargorod Truth, where they briskly concocted for her the following notice:
MISSING FROM HOME. I implore anyone knowing the whereabouts of Com. Bender to inform me. Aged 25-30, brown hair, last seen dressed in a green suit, yellow boots and a blue waistcoat.
Information on the above person will be adequately rewarded.
Gritsatsuyev, 15 Plekhanov St.
"Is he your son?" they asked sympathetically in the office.
"Husband!" replied the martyr, covering her face with a handkerchief.
"Your husband!"
"Why not? He's legal."
"Nothing.
You ought really to go to the militia."
The widow was alarmed.
She was terrified of the militia.
She left, accompanied by curious glances.
Three times did the columns of the Stargorod Truth send out their summons, but the great land was silent.
No one came forward who knew the whereabouts of a brown-haired man in yellow boots.
No one came forward to collect the adequate reward.
The neighbours continued to gossip.
People became used to the Stargorod tramway and rode on it without trepidation.
The conductors shouted