"I must get my hair cut," he decided after failing to smooth the thin, light tufts of hair on his head. "And I ought to wear starched collars; my neck is too thin."
The very same evening he got his hair cut, bought two collars, and felt himself still more a man.
The Smokestack was attentive and kind in his behavior toward Yevsey, but often a smile of derision gleamed in his eyes which somewhat disconcerted and awed the young fellow. Whenever the hunchback came, the old man's face assumed a preoccupied expression, and his voice sounded stern. He cut short almost everything the other man said with an objection:
"It's not that—it's not so—no, you're no wiser than I am—your brain is like a poor gun, it scatters the thought on all sides. You ought to shoot so that the whole charge goes in the same direction."
The hunchback shook his head sadly, and answered in a thick voice:
"Wait. Good work cannot be done in a day. You must keep at it."
"Time flies, the enemy grows."
"By the way, I noticed a man the other day," said the hunchback, "who took lodgings not far from my place. He was tall, had a pointed beard and screwed-up eyes, and walked quickly. I asked the dvornik where he was working. He told me the man had come to look for a position. I immediately wrote a letter to the Department of Safety. You see?"
The Smokestack interrupted his talk with a wide sweep of his arm.
"That's not important. The house is damp, that's why there are roaches in it. You won't get rid of them that way. The house must be made dry."