"How do you like it?" asked Pashinsky gloriously, looking at me and showing, instead of teeth, a burned-out cemetery in his mouth. "Don't they get enough? They just went to bed—and here is the music."
"Fine!" I answered. "Why don't we shoot? It makes more noise and frightens much more."
"We used to do so," he said with regret, "but all these burjoois, and the popes, and the whole carrion of Tobolsk did not like it. So we have decided for the moment not to. Nobody can forbid singing. We are free. The air belongs to the Soviet Government."
Then he continued:
"You should have seen those little ones"—he winked his eyes—"they got scared to death the first time we sang the "Parson's Daughter" right near their windows! And I'll tell you…." he whispered something in my ear.
I decided to start with him when it comes to rid the world of some of these Reds.
"Good!" I said with extreme pleasure and tapping him on the shoulder,
"Where are their rooms?"
"Right where the white curtain hangs … you see … one … two … three … fourth window on the second floor. They all are there in one room, they are never alone lately. They used to be on the first floor. That—was a holiday for us boys. Everything seen,—and we would…."
The smile on his face stretched from ear to ear.
"But," he continued,—"again the popes intervened. I hope they'll croak soon. And Kobylinsky consented. He is with us, of course,—but we must get rid of him."