He spoke with great assurance, and he looked at Vanyushka with peculiar attentiveness. At such times it seemed to Vanyushka that his comrade knew a way out.

Nevertheless, that night, as he lay beside his comrade, it occurred to him that if a brick were to fall out of the ceiling and land on Salakin’s head, it would be a good thing. And he recalled that a few days ago, in the dead of night there had been a wild scream that had frightened everybody, and he remembered a man’s bloody face flattened by a brick that had fallen from the ceiling.

“That’s a great fortune, your six ten-kopeck pieces!” Salakin muttered. “But, now, if you…”

“If I what?”

“If you had guts…”

“Well?”

“Well, never mind.”

Vanyushka reflected, and said:

“You can’t do anything. You just like to hear yourself talk.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“Oh, I could say something.”

“What?”

“Suppose I were ready for anything, then what?”

“Then what?”

“Yes, I want to know.”

“I will tell you.”

“Go ahead, say it.”

“I will, only…”

“You have nothing to say!” Vanyushka muttered with finality.

Salakin stirred on his bed, while Vanyushka, turning his back on him and sighing with desperate anguish, whispered:

“God, if there were at least a crust!…”

For a few moments both were silent. Then Salakin half-raised himself, bent his head over Vanyushka, and almost touching his ear with his own lips, said nearly inaudibly:

“Ivan, listen. Come with me.”

“Where?” asked Vanyushka, also under his breath.

“To Borisovo.”