There was nothing special about this shop. There was buying, selling, and talks about gain and loss. Only now and then, in corners, mysterious whispers were exchanged.
One day, Mitka the porter, an awkward kindly giant, white with flour dust, while removing the flour sacks, began to sing in Tichon’s presence a strange song:—
Once in holy Russia,
Stonewalled mother Moscow,
In the street Mestchanskaia,
Two dear friends encountered,
Both radiant as the sun.
Low bowed Ivan Timofeyevitch,
Salutes his friend, the other—Daniel Philipovitch,
“Welcome to my palace,