"What is a bihorka?"
"That's another spider, very much the same as a tarantula. In a fight one of them can kill a hundred tarantulas."
"H'm! . . . But we must write, . . . Where did we stop?"
The man of learning dictates another twenty lines, then sits plunged in meditation.
Ivan Matveyitch, waiting while the other cogitates, sits and, craning his neck, puts the collar of his shirt to rights. His tie will not set properly, the stud has come out, and the collar keeps coming apart.
"H'm! . . ." says the man of learning. "Well, haven't you found a job yet, Ivan Matveyitch?"
"No. And how is one to find one? I am thinking, you know, of volunteering for the army. But my father advises my going into a chemist's."
"H'm! . . . But it would be better for you to go into the university. The examination is difficult, but with patience and hard work you could get through. Study, read more. . . . Do you read much?"
"Not much, I must own . . ." says Ivan Matveyitch, lighting a cigarette.
"Have you read Turgenev?"