Zhílin and his friend lived in this way for a whole month. The master always laughed and said: "You, Iván, good! I, Abdul, good! " But he fed them badly, giving them nothing but unleavened bread of millet-flour baked into flat cakes, or sometimes only unbaked dough.
Kostílin wrote home a second time, and did nothing but mope and wait for the money to arrive. He would sit for days together in the barn sleeping, or counting the days till a letter could come.
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