"Good day, Semenich! we have not seen each other for a long time," calmly replied Chelkash, stretching out his hand.
"I wish it had been a whole century. Be off! Be off!"
But Semenich pressed the extended hand all the same.
"What a thing to say!" continued Chelkash, still retaining in his talon-like fingers the hand of Semenich, and shaking it in a friendly familiar sort of way—"have you seen Mike by any chance?"
"Mike, Mike? whom do you mean? I don't know any Mike. Go away, my friend! That packhouse officer is looking, he...."
"The red-haired chap, I mean, with whom I worked last time on board the 'Kostroma,'" persisted Chelkash.
"With whom you pilfered, you ought to say. They've carried your Mike off to the hospital if you must know; he injured his leg with a bit of iron. Go, my friend, while you are asked to go civilly; go, and I'll soon saddle you with him again!"
"Ah! look there now! and you said you did not know Mike! Tell me now, Semenich, why are you so angry?"
"Look here, Greg! none of your cheek! be off!"
The custom-house officer began to be angry, and glancing furtively around him, tried to tear his hand out of the powerful hand of Chelkash. Chelkash regarded him calmly from under his bushy brows, smiled to himself, and not releasing his hand, continued to speak: