“Ah! but then, you know, ... she ran away from him—and he got lonely without her—and so——”
“Ran away! Why, the devil take her, let her run away as far as she likes; there are plenty of women to be got!”
“Plenty of women, but only one soul!”
“He’ll have to answer for his soul to God in the next world!”...
“Ah! the soul! the soul!”... said the watchman, with a sigh; and the conversation would probably have broken off if the young assistant-stationmaster had not suddenly appeared beside the group. No one had heard him come up on account of his indiarubber galoshes.
He was a very cheerful young man; he had just got his situation, just got married, just put on his new uniform, and naturally felt that now he was “decently set up.” He stopped, as he was sauntering past, to smoke a cigarette with the group, and, for want of anything to do, cheerfully threw in a word.
“What’s the talk about? What soul?”
He had accidentally caught, in passing, the word “soul”; his thoughts were altogether at the other end of the earth from any stray conversations; he was going merrily home to his young wife and his boiling samovar, and was altogether thoroughly contented with himself.
“Why, we were just talking about the misfortune that happened to-day ... about the publican.”...
“Well, what about him?”