“No! nothing,” said the Captain decidedly.

They sat silently looking at the teacher.

“Let us go and drink, old devil!”

“And what about him?”

“Can you do him any good?”

Tyapa turned his back on the teacher, and both went out into the court-yard to join their companions.

“What is it?” asked Bag of Bones, turning his sharp nose to the Captain.

“Nothing in particular.…The man is dying…” remarked the Captain, shortly.

“Has he been beaten up?” asked Bag of Bones, with interest. The Captain gave no answer. He was drinking. “He must have known we had something to commemorate him with after his death!” continued Bag of Bones, lighting a cigarette. A laugh was heard, then a deep sigh. The Deacon suddenly drew himself up straight, moved his lips, rubbed his forehead, and howled wildly:

“ ‘Where the righteous r-e-s-t!’ ”

“You!” hissed Bag of Bones. “What are you howling for?”

“Give him a knock on the jaw,” advised the Captain.

“You fool!” said Tyapa’s hoarse voice. “When a man is dying one should be quiet.…”

It was quiet enough around. Both in the cloudy sky that threatened with rain and on the earth enveloped in the sinister darkness of an autumn night. One could hear the snoring of the sleepers and the tinkling sound of pouring vodka, chewing…The Deacon was muttering something. The clouds floated so low down that it seemed as if they would touch the roof of the old house and knock it over the group of men.

“Ah! It’s sad when a friend is dying,” stammered the Captain, sinking his head. No one answered him.

“He was the best man among you all…the cleverest, the most decent…I’ll miss him.”

“ ‘With the Saints give rest.’…Sing, you crippled scoundrel!” roared the Deacon, digging his drowsy friend in the ribs.

“Be quiet!” shouted Bag of Bones, jumping wrathfully to his feet.

“I will give him one on the head,” proposed Martyanoff, raising his head from the ground.

“You are not asleep?” Aristid Fomich asked him with unexpected gentleness. “Have you heard about our teacher?”

Martyanoff lazily and heavily got up from the ground, looked at the streams of light coming out of the doss-house, shook his head and silently sat down beside the Captain.

“Let’s have a drink!” proposed Kuvalda, groping for the glasses.

“I will go and see if he wants anything,” said Tyapa.

“He wants a coffin!” came wryly from the Captain.