harboured some thought of his own, which he began to approach by the Socratic method.
“Tell me, Mr. Policeman, what is to-day?”
“Won’t you shut up!” Bargamot replied in contempt. “Drunk before daylight!”
“Has the bell at Michael the Archangel’s rung yet?”
“Yes, what’s that to you?”
“Then Christ is risen!”
“Well, He is risen.”
“Then allow me–” Garaska was carrying on this conversation half twisted towards Bargamot, and with his face resolutely turned to him. Bargamot, interested by the strange questions, mechanically let go the greasy collar. Garaska, losing his support, staggered and fell before he could show to Bargamot an object which he had just taken out of his pocket. Raising his great shoulders, as he supported himself on his hands, Garaska looked on the ground, then fell face downwards, and began to wail, as a peasant woman wails for the dead.
Garaska howling! Bargamot was surprised, but deciding that it must be some new joke of his, he still felt interested as to developments. The development was that Garaska continued howling without words, just like a dog.
“What’s up now? Off your nut, eh?” said Bargamot as he gave him a shove with his foot. He went on howling. Bargamot was in a dilemma.
