“You men there,” he cried out suddenly in a loud, deliberate voice, “you wolves, why have you suddenly become so meek?…Have you nothing better to do than stare and keep mum?”

“We would gladly talk, most high and terrible one!” answered the Ragged Bridegroom, rising and going towards Artyom.

He was a thin, bald-headed man, with a pointed beard and small, red eyes that had a malicious way of blinking. He wore a canvas blouse and a pair of soldier’s trousers.

“You have been ill, I hear,” he said, seating himself opposite to Artyom.

“And what of that?”

“Nothing.…But we have not seen you for a long time.…And whenever we asked after you, we were told: ‘Artyom has been pleased to fall ill.’ ”

“So! Well?”

“Well, let’s proceed. What was the matter with you?”

“You don’t know?”

“Was I treating you?”

“You are lying the whole time, you dog,” said Artyom, laughing. “And why do you tell lies? You know well enough what happened.”

“Yes, I know,” answered the Bridegroom, laughing too.

“Well, then, why do you tell lies?”

“Because it is smarter.”

“Smarter! You think so, you candle-end!”

“Yes. If I had spoken the truth, you would probably have been angry.”

“I spit on you.”

“Thank you! And you don’t offer to treat us with a little vodka in honor of your recovery?”

“Order what you like.”

The Ragged Bridegroom ordered half a bottle of vodka, and his spirits began to rise.

“You’ve got an easy time of it, Artyom. You are never in want of money.”

“Well, what else?”

“Nothing. It is the women—devil take them—who get you out of trouble.”

“And they won’t even look at you, is that it?”

“What can we do? We haven’t the feet to walk your beat,” sighed the Bridegroom.

“No, it is because a woman likes a healthy man. And what are you? I am a clean man—there you have it.”