“Will you have some tea? If so, ask these noblemen for some.”
“Where do you see any noblemen? They’re noblemen no longer. They’re not a bit better than us,” said in a sombre voice a convict who was seated in the corner, who hitherto had not risked a word.
“I should like a cup of tea, but I am ashamed to ask for it. I have self-respect,” said the convict with the heavy lip, looking at me with a good-humoured air.
“I will give you some if you like,” I said. “Will you have some?”
“What do you mean—will I have some? Who would not have some?” he said, coming towards the table.
“Only think! When he was free he ate nothing but cabbage soup and black bread, but now he is in prison he must have tea like a perfect gentleman,” continued the convict with the sombre air.
“Does no one here drink tea?” I asked him; but he did not think me worthy of a reply.
“White rolls, white rolls; who’ll buy?”
A young prisoner was carrying in a net a load of calachi (scones), which he proposed to sell in the prison. For every ten that he sold, the baker gave him one for his trouble. It was precisely on this tenth scone that he counted for his dinner.
“White rolls, white rolls,” he cried, as he entered the kitchen, “white Moscow rolls, all hot. I would eat the whole of them, but I want money, lots of money. Come, lads, there is only one left for any of you who has had a mother.”