"The principal thing, gentlemen, in all cases of illness is cleanliness in your own persons, and good fresh air," thus he instructed his listeners.
"But those who keep clean manage to die all the same!" remarked one of the audience.
"Ah! dear Lord!" sighed the painter's cook out loud. "It would be better to pray to the holy martyr St. Barbara to save us from a sudden death!"
Orloff stood near his wife, and though apparently occupied with his own thoughts, watched the student with a fixed stare. Suddenly he felt some one pull his sleeve.
"Little Uncle Grigori!" whispered Tschischik in his ear, standing on tiptoe, and looking at the cobbler with small round eyes that glowed like burning coals. "The poor Mitri Pavlovitch is going to die. He has no relations—what will become of his accordion?"
"Keep quiet, you little imp!" Orloff replied, and pushed him on one side.
Senka looked in at the window of the room from which they had just carried out the accordion-player, his eyes searching round with a covetous glance.
"Well, as a final word of caution, my friends, use plenty of chloride of lime!" the student's voice was heard once more saying.