On this occasion Garaska had evidently a difficult path to negotiate. The rags, which made a pretence of seriously covering his emaciated body, were all over still undried mud.
His face, with its big, bulbous red nose, which was incontestably one of the causes of his unstable equilibrium, was covered with an irregularly distributed watery growth, and gave substantial evidence of its close relations with alcohol and a neighbour’s fist. On his cheek near the eye was a scratch of evidently recent origin.
He succeeded at last in parting company with the lamppost, and when he observed the dignified silent figure of Bargamot he was overjoyed.
“Our best respects to you, Bargamot Bargamotich—we hope we see you well!” said he with a polite wave of his hand, but he staggered, and was fain to prop himself up with his back against the lamppost.
“Where are you going to?” growled Bargamot saturninely.
“We’re orl righ’!”
“On the old lay, eh? Or do you want a doss in the cells. You wretch, I’ll run you in at once.”
“No, you don’t!”
Garaska was just going to make a gesture of defiance, when he wisely restrained himself, spat and rubbed his foot about on the ground, as though to rub out the spittle.
“You can talk when you get to the police station! March!”
Bargamot’s mighty hand stretched out to Garaska’s collar, so greasy in fact that it was evident that Bargamot was not his first guide on the thorny path of well-doing. Giving the drunken man a slight shake, and propelling his body in the required direction, and at the same time giving it a certain stability, Bargamot dragged him towards the above-mentioned gaol, just as a strong hawser might tow after it a very light schooner, which had met with an accident outside the harbour. He considered himself deeply injured, instead of enjoying his well-earned rest, to have to drag himself with this drunkard to the station.
Ugh! Bargamot’s hands itched—but the consciousness that on such a high festival it would be unseemly to let them have their way, restrained him. Garaska strode on bravely, mingling in a remarkable manner self-confidence, and even insolence, with meekness. He evidently harboured some thought of his own, which he began to approach by the Socratic method.
“Tell me, Mr. Policeman, what is today?”
“Won’t you shut up!” Bargamot replied in contempt. “Drunk before daylight!”
“Has the bell at Michael the Archangel’s rung yet?”
“Yes, what’s that to you?”
“Then Christ is risen!”
“Well, He is risen.”
“Then allow me—” Garaska was carrying on this conversation half twisted towards Bargamot, and with his face resolutely turned to him. Bargamot, interested by the strange questions, mechanically let go the greasy collar. Garaska, losing his support, staggered and fell before he could show to Bargamot an object which he had just taken out of his pocket. Raising his great shoulders, as he supported himself on his hands, Garaska looked on the ground, then fell face downwards, and began to wail, as a peasant woman wails for the dead.
Garaska howling! Bargamot was surprised, but deciding that it must be some new joke of his, he still felt interested as to developments. The development was that Garaska continued howling without words, just like a dog.
“What’s up now? Off your nut, eh?” said Bargamot as he gave him a shove with his foot. He went on howling. Bargamot was in a dilemma.
“What’s got yer, eh?”
“The eg—g.”
“Well?”
Garaska went on howling, but less noisily, he sat down and lifted up his hand. The hand was covered with something sticky, to which adhered pieces of coloured eggshell. Bargamot, still in doubt, began to have an inkling that something untoward had taken place.
“I—like a gentleman—to present—Easter egg—but you—” blubbered Garaska disconnectedly; but Bargamot understood.
It was evident what had been Garaska’s intention. He wished to present him with an Easter egg according to Christian usage, and Bargamot was for taking him to gaol. Perhaps he had brought the egg a long way, and now it was broken—and he was crying. Bargamot imagined to himself that the marble egg he was keeping for Jack was broken, and how sorry it made him.
“ ’Ere’s a go!” said Bargamot shaking his head, as he looked at the wallowing drunkard, and pitied him as intensely as he would have pitied a man cruelly wronged by his own brother.
“He was going to present—” “He is also a living soul,” muttered the policeman, striving albeit clumsily to render the state of affairs clear to himself, and feeling a mixture of shame and pity, which became more and more oppressive.
“And you would have run him in! Shame on you!”
Sighing heavily as he bent down he knocked his short sword against a stone, and sat down on his heels near to Garaska.
“Well,” he muttered in confusion, “perhaps it is not broken.”
“Not broken! Why yer was ready to break my snout for me. Brute!”
“But what did you shove for!”
“What for—” mimicked Garaska. “I was going—like a gentleman to—and him to—the lock up. Think that’s my last egg? Yer lump!”
Bargamot sniffed. He did not feel in the least hurt by Garaska’s abuse; through his whole ill-organized interior he felt a sort of half pity, half shame, while in the remotest depths of his stout body something kept tiresomely wimbling and torturing.
“Can one help giving you a thrashing?” said Bargamot, more to himself than to Garaska.
“Not you, you garden scarecrow! Now look ’ere.”
Garaska was
