"A fine daughter you have. Your daughter, eh?"

"Yes, and she is about to marry, too."

After they had clinked glasses and wished one another health and long
years the innkeeper inquired:

"All your men healthy?"

"All. Only one-eyed Jancu died. You remember him. He was well along in
years."

"_Bogdaproste._ Let not a younger man than he was die," answered
Anastasidis as he crossed himself.

After Marcu had declared himself warmed back to life by the fine wine he
inquired of Anastasidis the price of oats and straw and hay. The
innkeeper's store and his warehouse contained everything from a needle
to an oxcart. The shelves were full of dry goods, socks, shirts, silks,
belts, fur caps, coats, and trousers. Overhead, hanging from the
ceiling, were heavy leather boots, shoes, saddles, harness of all kinds,
fishers' nets, and even a red painted sleigh that swung on heavy chains.
In one corner of the store blankets were piled high, while all over the
floor were bags of dry beans and peas and corn and oats. At the door
were bales of straw and hay, and outside, already half covered with
snow, iron ploughs hobnobbed with small anchors, harrows, and bundles of
scythes that leaned on the wall.

"Oats you wanted? Oats are very high this year, Marcu."