"He is an oldish man. Perhaps his wife has left him, or he has made off with money not belonging to him."
He sent me into the town to fetch the police, and himself sat down on the edge of the pit, letting his feet hang over, wrapping his worn overcoat closely round him. Having informed the police of the suicide, I ran back quickly, but in the meantime the chorister had drunk the dead man's vodka, and came to meet me, waving the empty bottle.
"This is what ruined him," he cried, and furiously dashing the bottle to the ground, smashed it to atoms.
The town constable had followed me. He looked into the pit, took off his hat, and crossing himself indecisively, asked the singer:
"Who may you be?"
"That is not your business."
The policeman reflected, and then asked more politely:
"What account do you give of yourself, then? Here is a dead man, and here are you, drunk!"
"I have been drunk for twenty years!" said the singer proudly, striking his chest with the palm of his hand.
I felt sure that they would arrest him for drinking the vodka. People came rushing from the town; a severe-looking police inspector cartie in a cab, descended into the pit, and, lifting aside the overcoat of the suicide, looked into his face.