Yevsey's gaze wandered gloomily about the contracted room. The walls papered in yellow were hung with portraits of Czars, generals, and naked women. These motley, obtrusive spots fairly cut the eyes, recalling sores and wounds on the body of a sick person. The furniture, smelling of whiskey and warm, greasy food, pressed close against the walls, as if to withdraw from the people. The lamp burned under a green shade, and cast dead shadows upon the faces.
For some reason Yevsey recollected the old sickly flat-nosed beggar with the restless eyes of a sharper, whom he met almost every day on his way to the office. The beggar pretended to be a jolly fellow, and would chant garrulously as he stretched out his hand for alms:
"Stout of body, red of nose,
Pining for the want of booze;
Prithee, help God's pilgrim true,
Charity to whom 'tis due!
Help my burning thirst to slake,
Rum, oh rum, for the Lord's sake!"
The spy put his hand across the table, and pulled Yevsey's hair.
"When I speak, you must listen."