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"The same as everyone else. . . . You see, I am a menial, I am my brother's servant; my brother's the servant of the visitors; the visitors are Varlamov's servants; and if I had ten millions, Varlamov would be my servant." "Why would he be your servant?" "Why, because there isn't a gentleman or millionaire who isn't ready to lick the hand of a scabby Jew for the sake of making a kopeck.
"Whose sheep are these?" asked Kuzmitchov. "Varlamov's," the old man answered in a loud voice. "Varlamov's," repeated the shepherd standing at the other end of the flock. "Did Varlamov come this way yesterday or not?" "He did not; his clerk came. . . ." "Drive on!" The chaise rolled on and the shepherds, with their angry dogs, were left behind.
It seemed to be hesitating whether to bark or not. Deciding that there was no need to bark, it went cautiously up to Yegorushka, ate the sticky plaster and went out again. "There are Varlamov's men!" someone shouted in the street. After having his cry out, Yegorushka went out of the shed and, walking round a big puddle, made his way towards the street.
Varlamov's conversation with the horseman and the way he had brandished his whip had evidently made an overwhelming impression on the whole party. Everyone looked grave. The man on horseback, cast down at the anger of the great man, remained stationary, with his hat off, and the rein loose by the foremost waggon; he was silent, and seemed unable to grasp that the day had begun so badly for him.
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