The sun-lit street was bright with red shirts and the brilliant glitter of white teeth shelling the sun-flower seeds. Harmonicas were heard here and there; iron boards struck piles of knuckle-bones, scattering them in all directions; a rooster was crowing bravely, challenging another rooster to combat. But Sazonka paid attention to none of these things. His face, with one eye blackened, and the lip cut, was gloomy and serious, and his hair was dishevelled, no longer having the appearance of a fine cap. He was ashamed of his debauch, ashamed because he had broken his word, because he could not go to see Senista in the holiday array he had planned,—wearing a red woolen shirt and a vest,—ashamed because he was going, dirty, unkempt, his breath reeking with liquor. But the nearer he came to the hospital, the calmer he grew. More and more his eyes sought the bundle containing the present which he was carrying carefully in his left hand. And Senista's face, with its appealing look and parched lips seemed to be constantly before him, as clear and as life-like as though the boy himself were there.
"Ain't we human, kid? Oh, Lord!" Sazonka kept on saying to himself, as he hurried along. Now he is in front of the large yellow hospital-building, with its black-framed windows, which look like gloomy eyes. Now he is in the long corridor, in the midst of the medicine odors and an atmosphere of indistinct fear and unpleasantness. Now he is in the ward, right by Senista's bed . . .
But where is Senista?
"Whom are you looking for," asked the nurse, following him into the ward.
"There was a boy here, Semyon. Semyon Erofeyev. Right in this place." And Sazonka pointed to the empty bed.
"You ought to ask first, and not break in like this," said the nurse rudely. "It wasn't Semyon Erofeyev, either, but Semyon Pustoshkin."
"Erofeyev, that's according to his father. His father's name was Erofey, so he is Erofeyich," explained Sazonka, slowly turning paler and paler.
"Oh, he's dead, your Erofeyich. And we don't care for his father's name. For us, he's Semyon Pustoshkin. He's dead, I say."
"Is that so?" There was reverent astonishment in Sazonka's voice, as he stood there, so pale that the freckles on his face appeared almost like ink stains. "When did he die?"
"Last night."
"And may I . . ." Sazonka did not finish his stammered request.
"Why not?" answered the nurse indifferently. "Just ask where the morgue is, they'll show you. If I were you, I wouldn't be so upset about it. He was sickly anyhow; couldn't live long."
Sazonka's tongue inquired about his way, very politely. His legs bore him in the direction indicated, but his eyes saw nothing. Only when the face of the dead Senista was directly in front of
