The old Evenk carefully wrote "M." with an unaccustomed hand. The Boyars." The letters did not fit into the space reserved for the signature; Mikhail Mikhailovich never puts crosses — he once studied at the educational institute, knows how to read newspaper headlines, is reputed to be literate, but in his life he has never written anything except his last name. He signed such contract forms countless times, and let anyone say it! — Boyarinov has never failed to fulfill his obligations. These contracts were signed before he was old enough, and now he is more than old enough to count: however, Mikhail Mikhailovich remembers the year of his birth firmly — after being drafted into the tsarist army. He just joined the army when they were fighting the Japanese, so count how long he lived!


And so... The old industrialist, the oldest in the whole district, has never disgraced his signature, and if he undertakes to get a hundred squirrels and five columns now, it means that he will hand them over to the Contractor, just as he used to hand over five hundred and six hundred each, and you can write him an advance without hesitation. That's why he sailed to the trading post from his camp eighteen kilometers away: he had to buy something at the store and sail back. It's been a long time since there have been so many lingonberries in the woods as there are today, and he and the old woman don't waste any time — they've collected almost two barrels; one of these days he'll load them into a branch and bring them to the trading post.


—No, Grandpa Misha, I don't doubt it," Kuzma Fomich, the forager, waves his hand, writing out a receipt. "We've known you for years. Just look — calculate so that there are enough hunting supplies for the house.: As you say, I ran out of sugar, my grandmother ordered me to bring flour... It wouldn't have turned out like last time.


A portly and ruddy-cheeked Kuzma Fomich approaches Boyarinov and next to him he looks even shorter and puny. He doesn't say anything, just nods his head slightly, as if agreeing with everything the producer tells him. Folding the receipt, he puts it in his pocket and gives a small brown hand in farewell, then, taking an empty bag from a stool, leaves the office.


"You'd better go home right away, my friend, don't go to anyone's shop, and if you want to rest before going, come and drink tea with me," Kuzma Fomich says to the old man as he walks along a wide, undeveloped street, mincing lightly and lightly. "The trouble is with you," the producer sighs sympathetically to himself and shakes his head.


There are several people standing in a dark shop — only one shutter has been removed — and Boyarinov modestly stands aside, waiting for his turn. Fisa, an Evenki woman of about thirty—five, a deer shepherd of the trading post, appeared from somewhere and quickly told him something in her own language. She has a hoarse cold voice, she is dressed sloppily and poorly, her gestures and intonation betray her excitement. The old man nods occasionally without turning to her, and his face, pale yellow and wrinkled, with sparse blond hair in place of a mustache and beard, as well as his eyes, narrow and hidden by flabby eyelids, it is impossible to guess whether he is listening to his interlocutor or not. When the saleswoman calls Mikhail Mikhailovich to the vacant counter, Fisa goes with him and stands next to him.


"You have forty rubles here, Grandfather," the saleswoman says, looking at the piece of paper handed to her. — What are we going to take?


The old man does not answer immediately, puts his bag on the counter, carefully straightens its ties, looks around, hesitates.


— Give me one liter! Real free porn movies https://exporntoons.net online porn USA, UK, AU, Europe.