Inspector. What?
Grigòriev. Nothin’.
Inspector. Does it smell?
Grigòriev. ’T stinks, your honour.
Inspector. Badly?
Grigòriev. Terrible bad, your honour.
Inspector. I don’t know—it’s nothing to hurt, I think; one can’t smell it.
Grigòriev. Of course one can’t. Let me hold it, sir; there you be!
BEFORE THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE.
