"Yes, an appointment!" Bodlevski replied, beginning to lose patience.
"Well, take a seat in the inner room," again said the barkeeper slyly.
"Perhaps your friend will come in, or perhaps he is there already."
Bodlevski made his way into a roomy saloon, with five windows with faded red curtains. The ceiling was black from the smoke of hanging lamps; little square tables were dotted about the floor; their covers were coarse and not above reproach on the score of cleanliness. The air was pungent with the odor of cheap tobacco and cheaper cigars. On the walls were faded oleographs of generals and archbishops, flyblown and stained.
Bodlevski, little as he was used to refined surroundings, found his gorge rising. At some of the little tables furtive, impudent, tattered, sleek men were drinking.
Presently Yuzitch made his appearance from a low door at the other end of the room. The meeting of the two friends was cordial, especially on Bodlevski's side. Presently they were seated at a table, with a flask of wine between them, and Bodlevski began to explain what he wanted to his friend.
As soon as he heard what was wanted, Yuzitch took on an air of importance, knit his brows, hemmed, and hawed.
"I can manage it," he said finally. "Yes, we can manage it. I must see one of my friends about it. But it's difficult. It will cost money."
Bodlevski immediately assented. Yuzitch at once rose and went over to a red-nosed individual in undress uniform, who was poring over the Police News.
"Friend Borisovitch," said Yuzitch, holding out his hand to him, "something doing!"
"Fair or foul?" asked the man with the red nose. "Hang your cheek!" laughed Yuzitch; "if I say it, of course it's fair." After a whispered conference, Yuzitch returned to Bodlevski and told him that it was all right; that the passport for Natasha would be ready by the next evening. Bodlevski paid him something in advance and went home triumphantly.