Prokop felt like a little child while Thomas was undressing him. “My mother,” he began, “when my mother, ever so long ago . . . father sat at the table, and mother carried me to bed, see?”
Then he was in bed, covered up to the chin, his teeth chattering and watching Thomas rapidly making a fire. He could have cried from self-pity and weakness, and he babbled the whole time; then a cold compress was placed on his forehead and he quieted down. He looked about the room; there was a scent of tobacco and women.
“You’re a rogue, Thomas,” he exclaimed seriously, “always having women.”
Thomas turned round. “Well?”
“Nothing. What exactly are you doing just now?”
Thomas waved his hand. “It’s bad, my friend. No money.”
“You womanize.”
Thomas only shook his head.
“And it’s a pity, you know,” began Prokop, with concern. “You could have—look, I’ve been at it for twelve years.”
“And what have you got out of it?” retorted Thomas sharply.
“Well, something here and there. I sold some explosive dextrine this year.”
“For how much?”
“For ten thousand. But that’s nothing. Rubbish. Only an explosive for mines. But if I had wished to . . .”
“Do you feel better now?”
“Fine. I’ve found out some methods for you!
