Tchelkache humored him.
"Enough said, wait a little. Let us go to the tavern."
They walked side by side along the street; Tchelkache twisting his moustache with the important air of an employer, the lad submissively, but at the same time filled with distrust and fear.
"What's your name?" asked Tchelkache.
"Gavrilo," replied the lad.
When they had entered the dirty and smoky ale-house Tchelkache went up to the bar and ordered, in the familiar tone of a regular customer, a bottle of brandy, cabbage soup, roast beef and tea, and, after enumerating the order, said briefly: "to be charged!" To which the boy responded by a silent nod. At this, Gavrilo was filled with great respect for his master, who, despite his knavish exterior, was so well known and treated with so much confidence.
"There, let us eat a bite, and talk afterward. Wait for me an instant,
I will be back directly."
He went out. Gavrilo looked around him. The ale-house was in a basement; it was damp and dark and reeking with tobacco smoke, tar and a musty odor. In front of Gavrilo, at another table, was a drunken sailor, with a red beard, all covered with charcoal and tar. He was humming, interrupted by frequent hiccoughs, a fragment of a song very much out of tune. He was evidently not a Russian.
Behind him were two ragged women from Moldavia, black-haired and sun-burned; they were also grinding out a song.
Further on, other faces started out from the darkness, all dishevelled, half drunk, writhing, restless. . .