He stared at me sternly.
"But I've done worse things," he said solemnly, "than some poor fellows that have been strung up by the neck and choked to death!"
I laughed, a little nervously. "Tell me your story, if you like," I said, "and let me decide just how black you are. But I haven't a great deal of apprehension. We're all of us poor miserable sinners, as far as that's concerned. I could tell you things about myself——"
Banaotovich was not listening to me at all. He had fallen suddenly into a fit of black brooding. After a minute or two, he looked up and asked sharply:
"Do you remember Wolansky?"
Wolansky was the Greek professor who had threatened to vote against Banaotovich when he was finishing his course at the Gymnasium.
"Of course," said I. "And I remember well how he abused you that last year. If there ever was a cantankerous old scoundrel, Wolansky was just that identical individual!"
"Maybe," he said absently; then after another pause:
"Do you remember that Wolansky died suddenly, just a little while before the end of the school year?"
I nodded. "I imagine that was a great piece of good luck for you," I said.