“Well, what do you want with me?” I said to him, wishing at last to get rid of him.
He remained silent, and then, looking at me in the most insinuating manner, said:
“Could not you let me have enough money to buy half-a-pint? I have drunk nothing but tea the whole day,” he added, as he took from me the money I offered him; “and tea affects me in such a manner that I am afraid of becoming asthmatic. It gives me the wind.”
When he took the money I offered him, the despair of Bulkin went beyond all bounds. He gesticulated like a man possessed.
“Good people all,” he cried, “the man lies. Everything he says—everything is a lie.”
“What can it matter to you?” cried the convicts, astonished at his goings on. “You are possessed.”
“I will not allow him to lie,” continued Bulkin, rolling his eyes, and striking his fist with energy on the boards. “He shall not lie.”
Every one laughed. Vermaloff bowed to me after receiving the money, and hastened, with many grimaces, to go to the drink-seller. Then only he noticed Bulkin.
“Come!” he said to him, as if the latter were indispensable for the execution of some design. “Idiot!” he added, with contempt, as Bulkin passed before him.
But enough about this tumultuous scene, which, at last, came to an end. The convicts went to sleep heavily on their camp-bedsteads. They spoke and raged during their sleep more than on the other nights. Here and there they still continued to play at cards. The festival looked forward to with such impatience was now over, and to-morrow the daily work, the hard labour, will begin again.