Vic Tuchkov laughed.
“I, brother Efimushka, have done enough deeds in my day.... I have squandered my share in the estate; I have given up my position in the service; I have been an actor; I have been a clerk in the lumber trade; afterwards I have had my own troupe of actors.... Then I lost everything, contracted debts, got mixed up in a bad affair ... eh! I have had everything.... And I have lost everything!”
The prisoner waved his hand and laughed good-naturedly.
“And, brother Efimushka, I am no longer a gentleman. I am cured of that. Now we will have good times together! Eh? what do you say? Come, cheer up!”
“What should I say,” began Efimushka, in a subdued voice. “I am ashamed. I have been telling you such things ... such nonsense!... I am only a peasant.... And we will spend the night here? I’ll light a fire.”
“Well, go ahead!”
The prisoner stretched himself upon the ground, face upwards, while the deputy went into the woods, from whence soon came sounds of the cracking of twigs. Presently Efimushka reappeared with an armful of firewood, and in a jiffy a small serpent of flame was merrily working its way upward through the pile of wood.
The old comrades, sitting opposite each other, watched it pensively, and took turns at smoking the pipe.
“Just as in the old days,” said Efimushka sadly.
“Only, the times are not the same,” said Tuchkov.