Some beggars prowling idly about the street in their rags, on the lookout for any opportunity that might offer of doing a little profitable business of some kind, quickly disappeared, no one knew where. On all sides the inhabitants of Shikhan were seen to turn their eyes in the direction whence the warning had come, with mingled expressions of curiosity and uneasiness.

Artyom’s advent had been looked forward to with keen expectation for some time past, and there had been hot discussions as to how he would first appear on the scene.

As formerly, Artyom took possession of the middle of the road, walking with his customary slow gait, which was that of a well-fed man taking a stroll. There was nothing new in his appearance. As usual, his yellow vest was hanging over his shoulder, his cap stuck on the side of his head, and his black curls were falling over his forehead. His right-hand thumb was stuck in his belt, his left hand thrust far down into his trousers pocket, and his athletic chest thrown out.

Only one change was noticeable, that his handsome face, as is always the case after an illness, seemed to have gained an expression of increased intelligence. He strolled along, responding to the greetings and congratulations with a careless nod of the head.

He was followed by all the eyes in the street, and by low murmurs of astonishment and admiration at the indestructible strength which had stood the beating so well. Many of the inhabitants of the suburb spoke regretfully of Artyom’s recovery, and hurled scorn and insult on those who had failed to injure his lungs and break his ribs. There was no man alive whom it was impossible to do in! Others, again, took delight in picturing the way in which Artyom would settle his score with Red Buck and his gang. But the greater the strength, the greater its power of fascination, and the majority of his fellow-townsmen were under the spell of Artyom’s strength.

Meanwhile, Artyom had entered Grabilovka, a tavern which was the club of Shikhan.

There were only a few people in the long, low brick-vaulted room as his tall, powerful figure crossed the threshold. One or two uttered an exclamation of surprise at the sight of him. There was a hasty scuffling of feet, and someone threw himself precipitately into a distant corner of the cellar-like room, which reeked with the fumes of bad tobacco, dirt, and damp.

Artyom, without appearing to notice anybody, let his eyes travel slowly round the room, and in answer to the obsequious greetings of the tavern-keeper, Savka Khlebnikov, he asked:

“Has Cain been here?”

“He soon will be. He generally comes about this time.”

Artyom took his seat near one of the iron-barred windows, ordered tea, and with his immense hands resting on the table, began to examine the company with an air of indifference.

There were about ten men in the room, all roughs; they had congregated together round two tables, and there sat watching Artyom. As their eyes met his, they all smiled in a constrained sort of way, as if anxious to secure his favor. They were evidently wishing to enter into conversation with him, but Artyom gave them only dark and surly looks in return. So they all held their tongues, unable to make up their minds who should first address him. Khlebnikov, busy at the bar, hummed behind his mustache; while his foxy eyes glanced furtively around.

The stupefying noise from the street penetrated through the window; abusive language, oaths, and vendors’ cries could be heard, together with nearer sounds of bottles falling and breaking to pieces on the stones. Artyom began to be bored in this malodorous and airless den.