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Old Maciek sat in their midst the one dumb man, and his head

alone was unmoved. Opposite him stood Baptist, resting his hands

on his club, and, moving his head, which was supported on the end

of the club, like a pumpkin stuck on the end of a long pole, he

nodded it, now forward and now backward, and cried incessantly,

"Sprinkle, sprinkle!" Up and down the room the mobile Razor ran

constantly from Sprinkler to Maciej's bench, but Bucket slowly

walked across the room from the Dobrzynskis to the other gentry,

as if he were trying to reconcile them. One shouted continually,

"Shave," and the other, "Pour"; Maciek held his peace, but he was

evidently beginning to be angry.