There he liked to roll on his straw and rags, whenever he was not busy, or felt especially lazy.

On Friday evenings he climbed to his roost very early, before the family assembled for supper, and waited for his cue, which was the breaking-out of table talk after the blessing of the bread.

Then Yakub began to clear his throat and kept on working at it until my father called to him to come down and have a glass of vodka.
Sometimes my father pretended not to hear him, and we smiled at one another around the table, while Yakub's throat grew worse and worse, and he began to cough and mutter and rustle in his straw.

Then my father let him come down, and he shuffled in, and stood clutching his cap with both hands, while my father poured him a brimming glass of whiskey.

This Yakub dedicated to all our healths, and tossed off to his own comfort.