“Serves him right then!”

“Why?” the other kept asking. He was a black-bearded man with a scar on his forehead.

“Because—he ought to understand! What kind of a worker was he? Workers—they’re, you see, dough, God’s bread! The others, good-for-nothings that is, they’re offal, bran! Their end, you see, is to serve as food for the beasts!”

“All alike are to be pitied,” said the black-bearded driver.

Salakin, who was lending an ear to the argument, said:

“It isn’t true.”

“What?”

“About pity. Take me, for instance: Matvey Ivanovich, the steward, is my enemy! Why did he sack me? I had worked two years, everything was as it should be! Suddenly he got furious with me, said that the cook Marya and me…And things like that. And then about the reins…that was my fault, too. The reins got lost. Look for them! Then he says to me: ‘Go!’ How’s that? I’m no use to him, but I’m certainly of use to myself! I must live. And now—can I pity him, the steward?”

Salakin was silent for a while, and then declared with deep conviction:

“I can pity myself only, and no one else!”

“Of course,” said Vanyushka.

After the third glass both of them leaned on the table, face to face, heated by the vodka and the noise. And Salakin began to tell Vanyushka his life-story in a long-winded, incoherent, and vehement manner.

“I am a foundling!” he said. “My life is a burden to me because of my mother’s sin.…”

Vanyushka looked at his friend’s excited, pock-marked face, and nodded in agreement so often that he was dizzy.

“Vanya! Order another half-bottle! It’s all one!” shouted Salakin, waving his arm in despair.

“It c-can be done…” replied Vanyushka.

III

When Vanyushka woke up, he found himself lying on a plank bed in a dusky cellar with a vaulted ceiling as badly pitted as Salakin’s face. He moved his tongue about in his mouth: there was no money, but only bitter, hot saliva. Vanyushka sighed deeply and looked around.

The entire cellar was occupied by low plank beds, and on them lay, like heaps of mud, ragged, dingy men. Some of them had awakened, and, moving heavily, were sliding onto the brick floor. Others were still asleep. The subdued hubbub of voices mingled with the snoring of the sleepers; the splashing of water could be heard. In the gray murk of early morning the men’s disheveled figures resembled tatters of autumn clouds.

“You awake?”

Next to Vanyushka stood Salakin. His face was red, apparently because he had just washed it with cold water. In his hands was a copper box with a number of wheels in it. With one eye he examined the wheels and with the other he looked at Vanyushka, smiling.