"What is he called?"
"What he was christened."
"But you belong to Zaraisk, don't you? To what Government?"
The boy stared at Raskolnikoff. "We have no governor, your highness, but districts. I stay at home, and know nothing about it, but my brother does; so pardon me, your most mighty highness."
"Is that an eating house there?"
"That's a dram shop; they have a billiard table."
"There are newspapers here?" asked he, as he entered a room—one of a suite—rather empty. Two or three persons sat with tea before them, while in a farther room a group of men were seated, drinking champagne. Raskolnikoff thought he recognized Zametoff among them, but be could not be sure. "Never mind, if it is!" he muttered.
"Brandy, sir?" asked the waiter.
"No, tea; and bring me some newspapers—for about the last five days. I'll give you a drink."
The papers and the tea appeared. Raskolnikoff sat and searched, and, at last, found what he wanted. "Ah, here it is!" he cried, as he began to read. The words danced before his eyes, but he read greedily to the end, and turned to others for later intelligence. His hands trembled with impatience, and the sheets shook again. Suddenly some one sat down near him. He looked up, and there was Zametoff—that same Zametoff, with his rings and chain, his oiled locks and fancy waistcoat and unclean linen. He seemed pleased, and his tanned face, a little inflamed by the champagne, wore a smile.