with us. I should like to make acquaintance with the brigadier.'
'As you like. Only, as far as acquaintance goes . . . you needn't expect much satisfaction from it, sir; he's grown very weak in his head, and in conversation he's silly as a little child. As well he may be; he's past his eightieth year.'
'What's his name?'
'Vassily Fomitch. Guskov's his surname.'
'And the deacon?'
'The deacon? . . . his nickname's Cucumber. Every one about here calls him so; but what his real name is—God knows! A foolish creature! A regular ne'er-do-weel.'
'Do they live together?'
'No; but there—the devil has tied them together, it seems.'
V
We approached the platform. The brigadier cast one glance upon us . . . and promptly fixed his eyes on the float; Cucumber jumped up, pulled back his rod, took off his worn-out clerical hat, passed a trembling hand over his rough yellow hair, made a sweeping bow, and gave vent to a feeble little laugh. His bloated face betrayed him an inveterate drunkard; his staring little eyes blinked humbly. He gave
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