“Allow me to offer you a cup of coffee, Sergei Ivanovich. It’s refreshing. Or perhaps, let’s drink this same dubious Lafitte?”
“No, you really must allow me to refuse. I have a drink of my own ... Simeon, give me...”
“Cognac!” cried out Niura hurriedly.
“And with a pear!” Little White Manka caught up just as fast.
“I heard you, Sergei Ivanich—right away,” unhurriedly but respectfully responded Simeon, and, bending down and letting out a grunt, resoundingly drew the cork out of the neck of the bottle.
“It’s the first time I hear of cognac being served in Yama,” uttered Lichonin with amazement. “No matter how much I asked, they always refused me.”
“Perhaps Sergei Ivanich knows some sort of magic word,” jested Ramses.
“Or is held here in an especially honoured state?” Boris Sobashnikov put in pointedly, with emphasis.
The reporter listlessly, without turning his head, looked askance at Sobashnikov, at the lower row of buttons on his short, foppish, white summer uniform jacket, and answered with a drawl:
“There is nothing honourable in that I can drink like a horse and never get drunk; but then, I also do not quarrel with anyone or pick upon anybody. Evidently, these good sides of my character are sufficiently known here, and because of that confidence is shown me.”