“But we are not from Tambov either. You’ll get nothing from us, brother. You go and ask a rich peasant.”
“I’ve colliwobbles and rumble-tumbles in my belly to-day. And where is he living, your rich peasant?”
“Why, Gazin yonder is a rich peasant, you go to him.”
“Gazin’s having a spree to-day, lads, he is drinking; he is drinking all his money.”
“He’s worth a good twenty roubles,” observed another. “It’s a good business, lads, selling vodka.”
“Well, won’t you welcome a friend? I must have a sup of regulation fare then.”
“You go and ask for some tea. The gentlemen there have got some.”
“Gentlemen? There are no gentlemen here. They are the same as we are now,” a convict sitting in the corner brought out gloomily. He had not said a word till then.
“I should like some tea, but I am ashamed to ask; we have our pride!” observed the convict with the protruding lip, looking good-naturedly at us.
“I’ll give you some, if you like,” I said, inviting the convict to have tea, “would you like some?”
“Like it? To be sure I’d like it.”
He came up to the table.
“At home he ate broth out of a shoe, but here he’s learnt to like tea; and wants to drink it like the gentry,” the gloomy convict pronounced.
“Why, does no one drink tea here?” I asked him. But he did not deign to answer me.
“Here they are bringing rolls. Mayn’t we have a roll too?” Rolls were brought in. A young convict brought in a whole bundle and was selling them in the prison. The baker girl used to give him one roll out of every ten he sold; he was reckoning on that tenth roll.
“Rolls, rolls!” he cried, entering the kitchen. “Moscow rolls, all hot! I’d eat them myself, but I haven’t the money. Come, lads, the last roll is left; surely some one, for his mother’s sake?”
This appeal to filial affection amused every one and several rolls were bought.
“I say, lads,” he announced, “Gazin will get into trouble, the way he’s carrying on! Upon my word, he has pitched on a time to drink! Ten to one, Eight-Eyes will be round.”
