It was Ostap speaking; he was fiddling with the receipt.
"Fifteen per cent commission is included," answered the girl.
"Well, I suppose that's all right.
Here you are."
Ostap took out his wallet, counted out two hundred roubles, and turned to the director-in-chief of the enterprise.
"Let me have thirty roubles, pal, and make it snappy. Can't you see the young lady's waiting?"
Ippolit Matveyevich made no attempt at all to get the money.
"Well?
Why are you staring at me like a soldier at a louse?
Are you crazy with joy or something?"
"I don't have the money," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich at length.
"Who doesn't?" asked Ostap very quietly.
"I don't."
"And the two hundred roubles? "
"I. . . I. . . lost it."
Ostap looked at Vorobyaninov and quickly grasped the meaning of the flabbiness of his face, the green pallor of the cheeks, and the bags under the swollen eyes.
"Give me the money," he whispered with loathing, "you old bastard!"
"Well, are you going to pay?" asked the girl.
"One moment," said Ostap with a charming smile, "there's been a slight hitch."
There was still a faint hope that they might persuade her to wait for the money. Here Ippolit Matveyevich, who had now recovered his senses, broke into the conversation.
"Just a moment," he spluttered. "Why is there commission?
We don't know anything about that.
You should have warned us.
I refuse to pay the thirty roubles."
"Very well," said the girl curtly. "I'll see to that."
Taking the receipt, she hurried back to the auctioneer and had a few words with him.
The auctioneer immediately stood up.
His beard glistened in the strong light of the electric lamps.
"In accordance with auctioneering regulations," he stated, "persons refusing to pay the full sum of money for items purchased must leave the hall.
The sale of the chairs is revoked."
The dazed friends sat motionless.
The effect was terrific.
There was rude guffawing from the onlookers.
Ostap remained seated, however.
He had not suffered such a blow for a long time.
"You're asked to leave."
The auctioneer's singsong voice was firm.
The laughter in the room grew louder.
So they left.
Few people have ever left an auction room with more bitterness.
Vorobyaninov went first.
With his bony shoulders hunched up, and in his shrunken jacket and silly baronial boots, he walked like a crane; he felt the warm and friendly glance of the smooth operator behind.
The concessionaires stopped in the room next to the auction hall.
They could now only watch the proceedings through a glass door.
The path back was barred.
Ostap maintained a friendly silence.
"An outrageous system," murmured Ippolit Matveyevich timidly. "Downright disgraceful!
We should complain to the militia."
Ostap said nothing.
"No, but really, it's the hell of a thing." Ippolit Matveyevich continued ranting. "Making the working people pay through the nose.