"Ye-es," Pyotr said softly, with a smile. "Now, friend, keep your
ears pricked. When the papers appear among the people----"
"I'm not speaking of myself. If they arrest me, it's no great matter."
The wife came up to the table and asked Stepan to make room.
He arose and watched her spread the table as he stood to one side.
"The price of fellows of our kind is a nickel a bundle, a hundred
in a bundle," he said with a smile.
The mother suddenly pitied him. He now pleased her more.
"You don't judge right, host," she said. "A man mustn't agree to
the price put upon him by people from the outside, who need nothing
of him except his blood. You, knowing yourself within, must put
your own estimate on yourself--your price, not for your enemies,
but for your friends."
"What friends have we?" the peasant exclaimed softly. "Up to the
first piece of bread."
"And I say that the people have friends."
"Yes, they have, but not here--that's the trouble," Stepan deliberated.
"Well, then create them here."
Stepan reflected a while. "We'll try."
"Sit down at the table," Tatyana invited her.
At supper, Pyotr, who had been subdued by the talk of the mother and
appeared to be at a loss, began to speak again with animation:
"Mother, you ought to get out of here as soon as possible, to escape
notice.
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