After drinking six glasses of tea in silence, Kuzmitchov cleared a space before him on the table, took his bag, the one which he kept under his head when he slept under the chaise, untied the string and shook it.  Rolls of paper notes were scattered out of the bag on the table.

“While we have the time, Father Christopher, let us reckon up,” said Kuzmitchov.

Moisey Moisevitch was embarrassed at the sight of the money.  He got up, and, as a man of delicate feeling unwilling to pry into other people’s secrets, he went out of the room on tiptoe, swaying his arms.  Solomon remained where he was.

“How many are there in the rolls of roubles?” Father Christopher began.

“The rouble notes are done up in fifties, . . . the three-rouble notes in nineties, the twenty-five and hundred roubles in thousands.  You count out seven thousand eight hundred for Varlamov, and I will count out for Gusevitch.  And mind you don’t make a mistake. . .”

Yegorushka had never in his life seen so much money as was lying on the table before him.  There must have been a great deal of money, for the roll of seven thousand eight hundred, which Father Christopher put aside for Varlamov, seemed very small compared with the whole heap.  At any other time such a mass of money would have impressed Yegorushka, and would have moved him to reflect how many cracknels, buns and poppy-cakes could be bought for that money.  Now he looked at it listlessly, only conscious of the disgusting smell of kerosene and rotten apples that came from the heap of notes.  He was exhausted by the jolting ride in the chaise, tired out and sleepy.  His head was heavy, his eyes would hardly keep open and his thoughts were tangled like threads.  If it had been possible he would have been relieved to lay his head on the table, so as not to see the lamp and the fingers moving over the heaps of notes, and to have let his tired sleepy thoughts go still more at random.  When he tried to keep awake, the light of the lamp, the cups and the fingers grew double, the samovar heaved and the smell of rotten apples seemed even more acrid and disgusting.

“Ah, money, money!” sighed Father Christopher, smiling.  “You bring trouble!  Now I expect my Mihailo is asleep and dreaming that I am going to bring him a heap of money like this.”

“Your Mihailo Timofevitch is a man who doesn’t understand business,” said Kuzmitchov in an undertone; “he undertakes what isn’t his work, but you understand and can judge.  You had better hand over your wool to me, as I have said already, and I would give you half a rouble above my own price—­yes, I would, simply out of regard for you. . . .”

“No, Ivan Ivanitch.”  Father Christopher sighed.  “I thank you for your kindness. . . .  Of course, if it were for me to decide, I shouldn’t think twice about it; but as it is, the wool is not mine, as you know. . . .”

Moisey Moisevitch came in on tiptoe.  Trying from delicacy not to look at the heaps of money, he stole up to Yegorushka and pulled at his shirt from behind.