“That describes them—foul carrion, that’s what they are!” said Zherbenev in a hoarse voice.
A new-comer at the next table, a stranger apparently to those present, was giving an order for a bottle of beer. Of middle age and medium height, he was stout, or rather flabby; he had small glittering eyes; and his dress had seen much wear. Kerbakh and Zherbenev gave him an occasional passing glance, not of a very friendly nature. As though they took it for granted that the stranger held antagonistic views, they increased the vehemence of their speeches and spoke more and more furiously of agitators and of Little Mother Russia, and mentioned, by the way, a number of local undesirables, Trirodov among them.
The new-comer scrutinized the two speakers for a long time. It was evident that the name of Trirodov, often repeated in Kerbakh’s remarks, aroused an intense interest, even agitation, in the stranger. His fixed scrutiny of his two neighbours at last attracted their attention and they exchanged annoyed glances.
Then the stranger ventured to join in their conversation.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “unless I am mistaken, you were speaking of Mr. Trirodov—am I right?”
“My dear sir, you....” began Kerbakh.
The new-comer immediately jumped to his feet and began to apologize profusely.
“May I impose upon your good nature to forgive my impertinent curiosity. I am Ostrov, the actor—tragedian. You may have heard of me?”
“For the first time,” said Kerbakh surlily.
“I’ve never heard the name,” said Zherbenev.