“Who’s drunk?”
“Well, who?” asked a young working man at the next table contemptuously.
“I am drunk!” exclaimed the drunkard in the red shirt. “And who am I, do you know, eh?”
“Yes, who are you? What sort of a bird are you?” asked the young working man in the black calico blouse derisively.
“I am Borodulin!” said the drunkard, and there was an expression on his face as if he had pronounced a famous name.
His neighbours roared with laughter, and shouted coarse, derisive words. The fellow in the red shirt cried angrily:
“What do you think? Is Borodulin, in your opinion, a peasant?”
The working man in the black blouse began to get annoyed. His lean cheeks grew red. He sprang from his place, and shouted angrily:
“Well, who are you? Answer.”
“I’m a peasant on my passport. An army reserve man. But that’s not all, I assure you,” said Borodulin.
“Well, who then are you?” repeated the young working man angrily, as he took a step towards him.
“And do you know what I am on my card? Can you guess?” asked Borodulin.
He blinked, and tried to look important. The comrades of the young working man tried to dissuade him from pursuing his inquiries, and whispered as they drew him away:
“Don’t waste your time on him. He’s a nobody.”
“I’m a detective, that’s what I am!” said Borodulin with his important air.
The working man in the black blouse spat contemptuously and walked back to his table. Borodulin went on:
“You think I’m out of my senses. No, old chap, you’re mistaken. I’m an experienced man. What do you think of me now? I’m a detective. I can arrest anyone!”
The men at the neighbouring tables listened to him and exchanged glances. Borodulin went on boasting.
“Suppose I put the police on to you?” asked a merchant at one of the middle tables angrily. His small black eyes sparkled.
Borodulin burst out laughing, and shouted:
“I have the police in the hollow of my hand. That’s where I have them.”
The customers grumbled. Threats were heard:
“You’d better go away while you’re still whole.”
He paid his bill and left. Suddenly the sound of a crowd gathering in the street was heard. From the window Elisaveta and Trirodov could see the fellow in the red shirt sauntering backwards and forwards in the street, only a few paces from the tavern, and annoying the passersby. He could be heard shouting:
“I’ll report you! I’ll arrest you! Hand over your ten kopecks.”
Many, afraid of him, acceded to his request. Borodulin clutched at every passerby. He threw off the men’s caps, he pinched the women, while he pulled young boys by the ear. The women ran from him shrieking. The more timid men also ran. The bolder ones paused in menacing attitudes. These Borodulin did not dare to molest. Small boys ran behind him in a crowd, laughing and hooting. Borodulin grumbled.
“You’d better look out. Do you know who I am?”
“Well, who are you?” asked a young fellow whom he jostled. “You’re a pothouse plug.”
A crowd formed round them. Their faces were morose and unfriendly. Borodulin was afraid, but he showed a bold front and boasted. He shouted:
“Two or three of you will be necessary!”
A sudden attack was made upon Borodulin. A young robust fellow sprang forward from the crowd with a shout, an enormous cobblestone in his hand.
“What’s this dog showing his teeth for?”
He hit Borodulin on the head with the stone. It was unfortunately too well aimed. Borodulin fell. Others attacked him as he lay there. The workman who hit him with the stone made his escape.
Elisaveta and Trirodov were looking out of the window. Trirodov exclaimed:
“The Cossacks!”
The people in the street scattered in all directions. The mutilated corpse lay in a pool of blood on the pavement.
XVII
Ostrov caused Trirodov a great deal of annoyance. More than once Trirodov returned to the earlier circumstances of their acquaintance and to their recent meeting at Skorodozh.
The week having elapsed, Ostrov paid Trirodov another visit. That whole week Ostrov could not get rid of his confusion and uneasiness. The details of his meeting with Trirodov became absurdly entangled in his memory. He kept on forgetting the day of the week it was. The week passed rather quickly for him. This was possibly due to his having made several interesting acquaintances. He had become quite a noticeable personage about town.
Ostrov made his visit late on Tuesday evening. He was received at once, and led into a chamber on the ground floor. Trirodov came in almost immediately. Not a little astonished, he asked unwillingly:
“Well, what can I do for you, Denis Alekseyevitch?”
“I’ve come for the money,” said Ostrov gruffly. “To receive the promised relief at your bountiful hands.”
“I did not expect you until Wednesday,” replied Trirodov.
“Why Wednesday when Tuesday is just as good?” said Ostrov with a savage smile. “Or do you find it so hard to part with your cash? Have you become a bourgeois, Giorgiy Sergeyevitch?”
Trirodov suddenly appeared to recall something as, with a tinge of derision in his smile, he asked:
“I beg your pardon, Denis Alekseyevitch, I thought you were coming tomorrow, as was arranged. I haven’t the money ready for you.”
Ostrov was annoyed. His broad face grew dark. He exclaimed, his eyes red with anger:
“You asked me to come in a week, and I’ve come in a week. You don’t expect me to come here forty times, do you? I have other business. You’ve promised me the money, and so hand it over. You must loosen your purse-strings whether you like it or not.”
He grew more savage with every word. In the end he struck the small round white table that stood on slender legs in front of him with his stout fist. Trirodov answered calmly:
“It is now Tuesday. That means the week is not up yet.”
“What do you mean it isn’t up?” said Ostrov. “I came to see you on Tuesday. Do you count eight days in a week, in the French
