“I declare I fancied you were dead, Antonitch.”
“Die first, I will follow you.”
I sat down beside them. On my right two convicts were conversing with an attempt at dignity.
“I am not likely to be robbed,” said one of them. “I am more afraid of stealing myself.”
“It would not be a good idea to rob me. The devil! I should pay the man out.”
“But what would you do, you are only a convict? We have no other name. You will see that she will rob you, the wretch, without even saying, ‘Thank you.’ The money I gave her was wasted. Just fancy, she was here a few days ago! Where were we to go? Shall I ask permission to go into the house of Theodore, the executioner? He has still his house in the suburb, the one he bought from that Solomon, you know, that scurvy Jew who hung himself not long since.”
“Yes, I know him, the one who sold liquor here three years ago, and who was called Grichka—the secret-drinking shop.”
“I know.”
“All brag. You don’t know. In the first place it is another drinking shop.”
“What do you mean, another? You don’t know what you are talking about. I will bring you as many witnesses as you like.”