"That's meant for the lawyer who worded your report?" asked Petounnikoff quietly, and added with a sigh: "Indeed he might have served you a bad turn, if we hadn't taken pity on you!"
"Ah!" sighed the distressed soldier, letting his hands fall in despair. "There were two of them—one started the business, and the other did the writing, the cursed scribbler!"
"How, a newspaper scribbler?"
"Well, he writes for the newspapers. They are both of them tenants of yours. Nice sort of people they are! Get rid of them; send them off for God's sake! They are robbers; they set everyone in the street against each other; there is no peace with them; they have no respect for law or order. One has always to be on one's guard with them against robbery or arson."
"But this newspaper scribbler, who is he?" asked Petounnikoff in an interested tone.
"He? He's a drunkard. He was a schoolteacher, and got turned away. He has drunk all he had, and now he writes for the newspapers, and invents petitions. He's a real bad 'un!"
"H'm-m! And it was he, then, who wrote your petition? Just so! Evidently it was he who wrote about the construction of the scaffolding. He seemed to suggest that the scaffolding was not built according to the by-laws."
"That's he! That's just like him, the dog! He read it here, and was boasting that he would run Petounnikoff into expense!"
"H'm-m! Well, how about coming to terms?" "To terms?" The soldier dropped his head and grew thoughtful. "Ah! what a miserable dark existence ours is!" he exclaimed sadly, scratching the back of his head.
"You must begin to improve it!" said Petounnikoff, lighting a cigarette.