BOLSHOV.  If they’re getting on, let ’em get. [After a short silence] But, look here, Lazar, when you make up the balance for me at your leisure, you might deduct the retail items sold to the gentry, and the rest of that sort of thing.  You see, we’re trading and trading, my boy, but there’s not a kopek of profit in it.  Maybe the clerks are going wrong and are carrying off stuff to their folks and mistresses.  You ought to give ’em a word of advice.  What’s the use of fooling around without making any profits?  Don’t they know the tricks of the trade?  It’s high time, it seems to me.

PODKHALYUZIN.  How in the world can they help knowing, Samson Silych?  It seems as if I were always in town and always talking to them, sir.

BOLSHOV.  But what do you say?

PODKHALYUZIN.  Why, the usual thing, sir.  I try to have everything in order and as it should be.  “Now, my boys,” I say, “look sharp, now.  Maybe there’s a chance for a sale; some idiot of a purchaser may turn up, or a colored pattern may catch some young lady’s eye, and click!” I say, “you add a ruble or two to the price per yard.”

BOLSHOV.  I suppose you know, brother, how the Germans in our shops swindle the gentlemen.  Even if we’re not Germans, but orthodox Christians, we, too, like to eat stuffed pasties.  Ain’t that so?  Ha?

RISPOLOZHENSKY laughs.

PODKHALYUZIN.  Why certainly, sir.  “And you must measure,” I say, “more naturally:  pull and stretch ju-u-u-st enough, God save us, not to tear the cloth:  you see,” I say, “we don’t have to wear it afterwards.  Well, and if they look the other way, nobody’s to blame if you should happen to measure one yard of cloth twice.”

BOLSHOV.  It’s all one.  I suppose the tailor’d steal it.  Ha?  He’d steal it, I suppose?

RISPOLOZHENSKY.  He’d steal it, Samson Silych, certainly that rascal would steal it; I know these tailors.

BOLSHOV.  That’s it; the whole lot of them are rascals, and we get the thanks.

RISPOLOZHENSKY.  Quite right, Samson Silych, you’re certainly speaking the truth.

BOLSHOV.  Ah, Lazar, profits are rotten these days:  it’s not as it used to be. [After a moment of silence] Well, did you bring the paper?

PODKHALYUZIN. [Taking it from his pocket and handing it over] Be so good as to read it, sir.

BOLSHOV.  Just give it here; we’ll take a look. [He puts on his spectacles and examines the paper.

RISPOLOZHENSKY.  Samson Silych, I’ll just take a thimbleful. He drinks, then puts on his spectacles, sits down beside BOLSHOV, and looks at the newspapers.