“I suppose so…”

“How I worked…”

“And made others overwork?”

“People like you? Nobles? I should think so! Many of them begged for mercy.”

“You went in only for robbing, not murder, I suppose?” hissed the Captain. Petunikoff turned green and hastily changed the subject.

“You are a bad host. Here you sit while your guest stands.”

“There’s nothing to prevent him from sitting,” said Kuvalda.

“But what am I to sit on?”

“On the ground…it will stand any rubbish…”

“You are a proof of that yourself,” said Petunikoff, quietly. “I should say it’s time I left you and your language,” and his eyes shot forth cold, poisonous glances.

And he went away, leaving Kuvalda under the pleasant impression that the merchant was afraid of him. If he were not afraid he would along ago have evicted him from the doss-house. The five rubles a month could not possibly be a reason for keeping him. Following him with his eyes, he noticed how the merchant circled round the factory, and walked up and down the scaffolding, and he wished very much that he would fall and break all his bones. He sat imagining many horrible forms of disaster while watching Petunikoff climbing about like a spider in its web. Last night it had almost seemed to him that a plank gave way under the merchant, and he had jumped up in his excitement—but it came to nothing, alas.

And today, as always, the red building stood out before the eyes of Aristid Kuvalda, so plain, so massive, and clinging so strongly to the earth, as though it were already sucking away all its juice. It appeared, with its gaping walls, to be laughing coldly and in sinister fashion at the Captain. The sun poured its rays on them as generously as it does on the miserable hovels of the street.

“Devil take the thing!” exclaimed the Captain, thoughtfully measuring the walls of the factory with his eyes. “If only…” Trembling with excitement at the thought that had just flashed across his mind, Aristid Kuvalda jumped up and ran to Vaviloff’s pub, smiling and muttering to himself all the time.

Vaviloff met him at the bar and gave him a friendly welcome.

“I wish your honor good health!” He was of middle height, and had a bald head with a crown of gray hair, and only a small bristling mustache like a tooth-brush. Upright and neat in his leather jacket, he showed in every movement that he was an old sergeant.

“Egorka, you have the deed to your property and the map, haven’t you?” demanded Kuvalda, impatiently.

“I have.” Vaviloff looked up suspiciously with his thievish little eyes and closely scanned the Captain’s face, which seemed to have an unfamiliar expression.

“Show them to me!” shouted the Captain, striking the bar with his fist and sitting down on a stool close by.

“But what for?” asked Vaviloff, feeling that it was better to keep his wits about him with Kuvalda so excited.

“You fool! Bring them at once.”