Vanyushka pitied both the stranger and himself.

“But maybe you’ll find something,” he said.

“Small chance. There are as many of us around here as there are yellow leaves in autumn. Just look about you—so many people, and they all want to eat.”

“Let’s have tea together,” Vanyushka offered.

“Thanks. I thank you very much. I’ve had tea. But if we could have a little glass of something…” He sighed heavily.

Vanyushka felt the money in his mouth with his tongue, deliberated a moment, beckoned to the waiter with his finger, and gave his order with an air of importance:

“See that we get a half-bottle—for two.”

The pock-marked fellow smiled gaily, but said not a word.

“Where do you sleep?” asked Vanyushka.

“Not far from here, it costs three kopecks a night. And you?”

“But I’ve just arrived.”

“Well, then, why don’t we sleep in the same place?”

“Let’s!”

“Good. What’s your name?”

“Ivan…Kuzin.”

“My name is Yeremey Salakin.”

They grew silent and looked at each other, smiling. And when the waiter brought the vodka and Vanyushka poured out a glass for Salakin, the latter half rose, took the glass, and holding it towards Kuzin, said:

“Well, let’s drink in token of the commencement of our friendship!”

Vanyushka liked these words very much. He dashingly emptied his glass at a gulp, made a sound of satisfaction, and said gaily:

“Two are better off than one.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve come to the city to work for the first time. I used to come here on business, but not stay,” Vanya was saying, refilling the glasses.

“I am here for the first time, too. I used to work on estates mostly. But I fell out with the steward at the last place, and he sacked me. The red-headed bastard!”

“My father died a little while ago. Now I am my own master.”

At a table near them sat two truck drivers, both covered with a white dust. They were engaged in a loud argument, and one of them, a huge old man, kept striking the table with his fist and shouting: