“A General always has his palm greased,” says Kvassoff, sententiously.
“Did you ever give them money, as you’re so sure of it?” asks Baklouchin, suddenly striking in, in a tone of contempt; “come, now, did you ever see a General in all your life?”
“Yes.”
“Liar!”
“Liar, yourself!”
“Well, boys, as he has seen a General, let him say which. Come, quick about it; I know ’em all, every man jack.”
“I’ve seen General Zibert,” says Kvassoff in tones far from sure.
“Zibert! There’s no General of that name. That’s the General, perhaps, who was looking at your back when they gave you the cat. This Zibert was, perhaps, a Lieutenant-Colonel; but you were in such a fright just then, you took him for a General.”
“No! Just hear me,” cries Skouratoff, “for I’ve got a wife. There was really a General of that name, a German, but a Russian subject. He confessed to the Pope, every year, all about his peccadilloes with gay women, and drank water like a duck, at least forty glasses of Moskva water one after the other; that was the way he got cured of some disease. I had it from his valet.”
“I say! And the carp didn’t swim in his belly?” this from the convict with the balalaïka.