"The workingmen are dissatisfied. They do not understand. They say the generals have been bribed."
"That's certainly true," Krasavin broke in. "None of them are Russians,"—he uttered an ugly oath—"what's our blood to them?"
"Blood is cheap," said Solovyov, and smiled strangely.
As a rule the spies spoke of the war unwillingly, as if constrained in one another's presence, and afraid of uttering some dangerous word. On the day of a defeat they all drank more whiskey than usual, and having gotten drunk quarreled over trifles.
On such days Yevsey trying to avoid possible brawls made his escape unnoticed to his empty room, and there thought about the life of the spies. All of them—and there were many, their numbers constantly increasing—all of them seemed unhappy. They were all solitary, and he pitied them with his colorless pity. Nevertheless he liked to be among them and listen to their talk.
At the meetings Sasha boiled over and swore:
"Monstrosities! You understand nothing. You can't understand the significance of the business. Monstrosities!"
In answer some smiled deprecatingly, others maintained sullen silence.
"For forty rubles a month you can't be expected to understand very much," one would sometimes mutter.
"You ought to be wiped off the face of the earth," shrieked Sasha.