"Say, you, chew faster!" Sasha bawled at Klimkov.
"Yes, yes, hurry," Piotr observed drily.
As he ate his dinner, Klimkov listened to the talk attentively, and observed the people while he himself remained unnoticed. He noted with satisfaction that all of them except Sasha did not seem bad, not worse or more horrible than others. He was seized with a desire to ingratiate himself with them, make himself useful to them. He put down the knife and fork, and quickly wiped his lips with the soiled napkin.
"I am done."
The door was flung open, and a loose-limbed fellow, his dress in disorder, his body bent and stooping, darted into the room, and hissed:
"Ssh! Ssh!"
He thrust his head into the corridor, listened, then carefully closed the door. "Doesn't it lock? Where is the key?" He looked around, and drew a deep breath. "Thank God!" he exclaimed.
"Eh, you dunce," sneered Sasha. "Well, what is it? Do they want to lick you again?"
The man ran up to him. Panting and wiping the sweat from his face, he began, to mutter in a low voice:
"They did, of course. They wanted to kill me with a hammer. Two followed me from the prison. I was there on business. As I walked out, they were standing at the gate, two of them, and one of them had a hammer in his pocket."