And before my eyes rose that depressing spectacle of the policeman slowly drawing the string from the pocket of his ulster, and the awe-inspiring prophet meekly folding his red, hairy hands behind his back, and crossing his wrists as if he were used to it.
I soon heard that the prophet had been sent out of the town. And after him, Kleshtchkov disappeared; he had married well, and had gone to live in a district where a harness-maker's workshop had been opened.
I had praised his singing so warmly to my master that he said one day:
"I must go and hear him!"
And so one night he sat at a little table opposite to me, raising his brows in astonishment, his eyes wide open.
On the way to the tavern he had made fun of me, and during the first part of the time he was in the tavern, he was railing at me, at the people there, and at the stuffy smell of the place. When the harness-maker began to sing he smiled derisively, and began to pour himself a glass of beer, but he stopped half-way, saying:
"Who the devil—?"
His hand trembled; he set the bottle down gently, and began to listen with intentness.
"Ye-es, Brother," he said with a sigh, when Kleshtchkov had finished singing, "he can sing! The devil take him! He has even made the air hot."
The harness-maker sang again, with his head back, gazing up at the ceiling: