The door opens and in there walks a tall, lanky figure straight as a poker, with a ginger-coloured hat and a smart overcoat, wonderfully suggestive of a journalist in Jules Verne or on the comic stage.
The figure stands still in the middle of the compartment for a long while, breathing heavily, screwing up his eyes and peering at the seats.
“No, wrong again!” he mutters. “What the deuce! It’s positively revolting! No, the wrong one again!”
One of the passengers stares at the figure and utters a shout of joy:
“Ivan Alexyevitch! what brings you here? Is it you?”
The poker-like gentleman starts, stares blankly at the passenger, and recognizing him claps his hands with delight.
“Ha! Pyotr Petrovitch,” he says. “How many summers, how many winters! I didn’t know you were in this train.”
“How are you getting on?”
“I am all right; the only thing is, my dear fellow, I’ve lost my compartment and I simply can’t find it. What an idiot I am! I ought to be thrashed!”
The poker-like gentleman sways a little unsteadily and sniggers.