Honestly!
Two hundred and thirty roubles for ten old chairs.
It's mad!"
"Yes," said Ostap woodenly.
"Isn't it? " said Vorobyaninov again. "It's mad!"
"Yes."
Ostap went up close to Vorobyaninov and, having looked around, hit the marshal a quick, hard, and unobserved blow in the side.
"That's for the militia.
That's for the high price of chairs for working people of all countries.
That's for going after girls at night.
That's for being a dirty old man."
Ippolit Matveyevich took his punishment without a sound.
From the side it looked as though a respectful son was conversing with his father, except that the father was shaking his head a little too vigorously.
"Now get out of here!"
Ostap turned his back on the director of the enterprise and began watching the auction hall.
A moment later he looked around.
Ippolit Matveyevich was still standing there, with his hands by his sides.
"Oh! You're still here, life and soul of the party!
Go on, get out!"
"Comrade Bender," Vorobyaninov implored, "Comrade Bender!"
"Go on, go!
And don't come back to Ivanopulo's because I'll throw you out."
Ostap did not turn around again.
Something was going on in the hall which interested him so much that he opened the glass door slightly and began listening.
"That's done it," he muttered.
"What has?" asked Vorobyaninov obsequiously.
"They're selling the chairs separately, that's what.
Maybe you'd like to buy one?
Go ahead, I'm not stopping you.
I doubt, though whether they'll let you in.
And you haven't much money, I gather."
In the meantime, in the auction hall, the auctioneer, feeling that he would be unable to make any member of the public cough up two hundred roubles all at once (too large a sum for the small fry left), decided to obtain his price in bits and pieces.
The chairs came up for auction again, but this time in lots.
"Four chairs from a palace.
Made of walnut.
Upholstered.
Made by Hambs.
Thirty roubles.
Who'll give me more?"
Ostap had soon regained his former power of decision and sang-froid.
"You stay here, you ladies' favourite, and don't go away.
I'll be back in five minutes.
You stay here and see who buys the chairs.
Don't miss a single one."
Ostap had thought of a plan-the only one possible under the difficult circumstances facing them.
He hurried out into the Petrovka, made for the nearest asphalt vat, and had a businesslike conversation with some waifs.
Five minutes later he was back as promised with the waifs waiting ready at the entrance to the auction rooms.
"They're being sold," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich. "Four and then two have already gone."
"See what you've done!" said Ostap. "Admire your handiwork!
We had them in our hands . . . in our hands, don't you realize!"