“Look! there is a serious subject!” said Sarudine, pointing to the shore.
Where the bank was steep, between the gnarled roots of a rugged oak one could see a narrow aperture, dark and mysterious, which was partially hidden by weeds and grasses.
“What is that?” asked Schafroff, who was unfamiliar with this part of the country.
“A cavern,” replied Ivanoff.
“What sort of cavern?”
“The devil only knows! They say that once it was a coiners’ den. As usual they were all caught. Rather hard lines, wasn’t it?” said Ivanoff.
“Perhaps you’d like to start a business of that sort yourself and manufacture sham twenty-copeck pieces?” asked Novikoff.
“Copecks? Not I! Roubles, my friend, roubles!”
“H—m!” muttered Sarudine, shrugging his shoulders. He did not like Ivanoff, whose jokes to him were unintelligible.
“Yes, they were all caught, and the cave was filled up; it gradually collapsed, and no one ever goes into it now. As a child I often used to creep in there. It is a most interesting place.”