From the hall came a squeaky voice of the kind endowed only to auctioneers, croupiers and glaziers.
". . . and a half on my left.
Three.
One more chair from the palace.
Walnut.
In perfect condition. And a half on the right.
Going for three and a half in front."
Three chairs were sold separately.
The auctioneer announced the sale of the last chair.
Ostap choked with fury.
He let fly at Vorobyaninov again.
His abusive remarks were full of bitterness.
Who knows how far Ostap might not have gone in this satirical exercise had he not been interrupted by the approach of a man in a brown Lodz suit. The man waved his plump hands, bowed, and jumped up and down and backwards and forwards, as though playing tennis.
"Tell me, is there really an auction here?" he asked Ostap hurriedly.
"Yes?
An auction.
And are they really selling things here?
Wonderful."
The stranger jumped backwards, his face wreathed with smiles.
"So they're really selling things here?
And one can buy cheaply?
First-rate.
Very, very much so.
Ah!"
Swinging his hips, the stranger rushed past the bewildered concessionaires into the hall and bought the last chair so quickly that Vorobyaninov could only croak.
With the receipt in his hand the stranger ran up to the collection counter.
"Tell me, do I get the chair now?
Wonderful!
Ah!
Ah!"
Bleating endlessly and skipping about the whole time, the stranger loaded the chair on to a cab and drove off.
A waif ran behind, hot on his trail.
The new chair owners gradually dispersed by cab and on foot.
Ostap's junior agents hared after them.
Ostap himself left and Vorobyaninov timidly followed him.
The day had been like a nightmare.
Everything had happened so quickly and not at all as anticipated.
On Sivtsev Vrazhek, pianos, mandolins and accordions were celebrating the spring.
Windows were wide open.
Flower pots lined the windowsills.
Displaying his hairy chest, a fat man stood by a window in his braces and sang.
A cat slowly made its way along a wall.
Kerosene lamps blazed above the food stalls.
Nicky was strolling about outside the little pink house.
Seeing Ostap, who was walking in front, he greeted him politely and then went up to Vorobyaninov.
Ippolit Matveyevich greeted him cordially.
Nicky, however, was not going to waste time.
"Good evening," he said and, unable to control himself, boxed Ippolit Matveyevich's ears.
As he did so he uttered a phrase, which in the opinion of Ostap, who was witnessing the scene, was a rather vulgar one.
"That's what everyone will get," said Nicky in a childish voice, "who tries . . ."