[1] Equivalent to "beer and skittles."
[2] A pood = 40 lb.
"No, you were never that, Efim!" said the prisoner with conviction, and he trembled all over, "that's plain, you could not become a lickspittle," he added hastily.
"Ah, he was a one!" exclaimed Efimushka, "and I loved him. Ah, Vick, Vick! Such a talented lad, too. Everyone loved him, it was not only I. He spoke several languages ... I don't remember what they were. It's thirty years ago. Ah! Lord, Lord! Where is he now? Well, if he be alive, he is either in high places ... or else he's in hot water. Life is a strange distracting thing! It seethes and seethes, and makes a pretty brew of the best of us! And folks, vanish away; it is pitiful, to the last gasp it is pitiful!" Efimushka sighed heavily, and his head sank upon his breast. For a moment there was silence.
"And are you sorry for me?" asked the prisoner merrily. There was no doubt about his merry way of asking, his whole face was lit up by a good and kindly smile.
"You're a rum 'un!" exclaimed Efimushka; "one cannot but pity you of course! What are you, if you come to think of it? Wandering about as you do, it is plain that you have nothing of your own in the earth—not a corner, not a chip that you can call your own. Maybe, too, you carry about with you some great sin—who knows what you are? In a word, you're a miserable creature."
"So it is," answered the prisoner.
And again they were silent. The sun had already set, and the shadows were growing thicker. In the air there was a fresh smell of earth and flowers and sylvan humidity. For a long time they sat there in silence.
"However nice it may be to stay here we must still be going. We have some eight versts before us. Come now, my father, let us be going!"
"Let us sit a little longer," begged "the father."