"God be thanked," said the old woman in the corner devoutly, "I have yet my beer!"
"And to think that only one of them has paid for his supper," moaned the pale-faced innkeeper, sitting down upon a chair and contemplating the wreck of his belongings with a haggard eye. The "Gigerl-night" was remembered for many a long year in the "Green Wreath Inn."
At the police station the arresting party told their own story in their own way, very much to the disadvantage of the Russians and very much in favour of the porters and of the officials themselves. The latter, indeed, enlarged so much upon the atrocities perpetrated by Dumnoff as to weary the superior officer. The Cossack having escaped, the policemen did not mention him. The officer glanced at Dumnoff.
"Your name?" he inquired.
"Victor Ivanowitch Dumnoff."
"Occupation?"
"Cigarette-maker in the manufactory of Christian Fischelowitz."
"Lock him up," said the officer. "Resisting the police in the execution of an arrest," he added, speaking to the scribe at his elbow.
"Your name?" continued he, addressing the Count. "Boris Michaelovitch, Count Skariatine."
"Count?" repeated the officer. "We shall see. Occupation?"