Efimushka was again silent, and, shifting from leg to leg as he stood over the prisoner, regarded him with wide-open eyes. And the latter kept looking at him and looking at him and smiling. Efimushka fell a pondering as to what he ought to be doing next.
And how was it that this vagabond, who had been so surly and sullen all along, should all at once have become so gentle? Wouldn't it be as well to fall upon him, twist his arms, give him a couple of whacks on the neck, and so put an end to all this nonsense? And with as severely an official tone as he could command, Efimushka said:
"Come, you rascal, stir your stumps! Get up, I say! And I tell you this, I'll make you trot along then, never fear! Do you understand? Very well! Look! I am about to strike."
"Strike me?" asked the prisoner with a smile.
"Yes, you; what are you thinking about, eh?"
"What! would you, Efimushka Gruizlov, strike me, Vic Tuchkov?"
"Alas! you are a little wide of the mark, you are," cried Efimushka in astonishment; "but who are you, really? What sort of game is this?"
"Don't screech so, Efimushka! It is about time you recognised me, I think," said the prisoner, smiling quietly and regaining his feet; "how do you find yourself, eh?"
Efimushka bounded back from the hand extended to him, and gazed with all his eyes at the face of his prisoner. Then his lips began to tremble, and his whole face puckered up.
"Viktor Aleksandrovich—is it really and truly you?" he asked in a whisper.