"True," said Pantaleyev in a hoarse voice. He was a dumpy person with eye-glasses, and wore a sleeveless jacket.
"Yes, brother, they applauded," exclaimed Grokhotov in ecstasy. "Now, of course, I know myself; an artist, that's me. No doubt of it now. I may say I owe my life to my art. What else? It's very simple. A crowd can't be taken in by a mere joke."
"The people have begun to be trusting," remarked Pantaleyev pensively and strangely. "Their hearts have greatly softened."
"That's true. See what they're doing, eh?" Grokhotov exclaimed quietly. Then he added in a whisper. "Everything is above-board now. Everywhere the persons under surveillance, our old acquaintances, are in the very first rank. What does it mean, eh?"
"Is the joiner's name Zimin?" Yevsey asked again.
"Matvey Zimin, case of propaganda work in the furniture factory of Knop," replied Pantaleyev with stern emphasis.
"He ought to be in prison," said Yevsey, dissatisfied.
Grokhotov whistled merrily.
"In prison? Don't you know they let everybody out of prison?"
"Who?"