“And what’s your name?” asked Chelkash.

“Gavrila!” answered the youth.

When they had come into the dirty and smoky eating-house, and Chelkash, going up to the counter, in the familiar tone of an habitué, ordered a bottle of vodka, cabbage soup, a cut from the joint, and tea, and reckoning up his order, flung the waiter a brief “put it all down!” to which the waiter nodded in silence—Gavrila was at once filled with respect for his employer, who, in spite of looking like a crook, was so well known and trusted here.

“Well, now we’ll have a bite and talk things over. You sit still, I’ll be back in a minute.”

He went out. Gavrila looked round. The restaurant was in a basement; it was damp and dark, and reeked with the stifling fumes of vodka, tobacco-smoke, tar, and some acrid odor. Facing Gavrila at another table sat a drunken man in the dress of a sailor, with a red beard, all over coal-dust and tar. Hiccuping every minute, he was droning a song all made up of broken and incoherent words, strangely sibilant and guttural sounds. He was unmistakably not a Russian.

Behind him sat two Moldavian women, tattered, black-haired, sunburned creatures, who were chanting some sort of song, too, with drunken voices.

And from the darkness beyond emerged other figures, all strangely disheveled, all half-drunk, noisy and restless.

Gavrila felt miserable here alone. He longed for his employer to come back quickly. And the din in the eating-house got louder and louder. Growing shriller every second, it all melted into one note, and it seemed like the roaring of some monstrous beast, with hundreds of different throats, vaguely enraged, trying to struggle out of this damp hole and unable to find a way out to freedom. Gavrila felt something intoxicating and oppressive creeping over him, over all his limbs, making his head reel, and his eyes grow dim, as they moved inquisitively about the eating-house.

Chelkash came in, and they began eating and drinking and talking. At the third glass Gavrila was drunk. He became lively and wanted to say something pleasant to his employer, who—the good fellow!—though he had done nothing for him yet, was entertaining him so agreeably. But the words which flowed in perfect waves to his throat, for some reason would not come from his tongue, which had suddenly grown heavy.

Chelkash looked at him and smiled sarcastically, saying:

“You’re screwed! Ugh—milksop!—with five glasses! How will you work?”

“Friend!” Gavrila muttered. “Never fear! I’ll do right by you! Let me kiss you! Eh?”

“Come, come! Here’s another drop!”

Gavrila drank, and at last reached a condition when everything seemed waving up and down in regular undulations before his eyes. It was unpleasant and made him feel sick. His face wore an expression of foolish enthusiasm. Trying to say something, he smacked his lips absurdly and bellowed. Chelkash, watching him intently, twisted his mustaches, and kept on smiling morosely.

The eating-house roared with drunken clamor. The red-headed sailor was asleep, with his elbows on the table.

“Come, let’s go then!” said Chelkash, getting up.