“I wonder where these mendicants come from,” said the literary gentleman, glancing at the reapers.
“Out of sundry nooks and corners, I suppose,” replied the other carelessly.
“That is not what I meant. What I meant is, how have they descended to their present position of beggars? Have they come to it suddenly or gradually, for a good reason or for a bad one?”
“Why are you so anxious to know? Are you contemplating writing a ‘Mysteries of Petrograd’?”
“Perhaps I am,” the literary gentleman explained with an indolent yawn.
“Then here is a chance for you. Ask any one of them, and, for the sum of a rouble, he will sell you his story, which, jotted down, you could resell to the nobility. For instance, take this old man here. He looks a good example of the normal type. Hi, old man! We want you!”
The old man turned his head at the summons, doffed his cap, and approached the two gentlemen.
“Good sirs,” he whined, “pray help a poor man who has been wounded in thirty battles and grown old in war.”
“It is Zakhar!” exclaimed Schtoltz in astonishment. “It is you, Zakhar, is it not?”
But Zakhar said nothing. Then suddenly, he shaded his eyes from the sun, and, staring intently at Schtoltz, muttered—