“Lie down, Sultan!” he shouted from the house-door.
There was a sound of heavy footseps of coughing, and of men’s voices. Then a young student from the Polytechnic School entered, very like Goschienko, except that he was dark and plain. With him, looking awkward and shy, came two workmen, with grimy hands, and wearing short jackets over their dirty red shirts. One of them was very tall and gaunt, whose clean-shaven, sallow face bore the mark of years of semi- starvation, perpetual care and suppressed hatred. The other had the appearance of an athlete, being broad-shouldered and comely, with curly hair. He looked about him as a young peasant might do when first coming to a town. Pushing past them, Soloveitchik began solemnly, “Gentlemen, these are—”
“Oh! that’ll do!” cried Goschienko, interrupting him, as usual. “Good evening, comrades.”
“Pistzoff and Koudriavji,” said the Polytechnic student.
The men strode cautiously into the room, stiffly grasping the hands held out to give them a singularly courteous welcome. Pistzoff smiled confusedly, and Koudriavji moved his long neck about as if the collar of his shirt were throttling him. Then they sat down by the window, near Sina.
“Why hasn’t Nicolaieff come?” asked Goschienko sharply.
“Nicolaieff was not able to come,” replied Pistzoff.
“Nicolaieff is blind drunk,” added Koudriavji in a dry voice.
“Oh! I see,” said Goschienko, as he shook his head. This movement on his part, which seemed to express compassion, exasperated Yourii, who saw in the big student a personal enemy.
“He chose the better part,” observed Ivanoff.