sonant, bee-hive. Beautifully, gravely, rhythmically, and in time thus: ou-ou-ou-ou—bum-bum-bum, ou-ou-ou-ou—bum, bum-bum. According to my observations, I could have concluded that this was produced by a punctual and reliable man, but unfortunately I could make no observations: that brigand quite overpowered me with his noise. I suffered, I suffered long,—at last could bear it no more, and poked him in the ribs.
"Don't snore," I said.
"Why, Bachka? Why shouldn't I snore?"
"You snore horribly, you don't let me sleep."
"You ought to snore too."
"I don't know how to snore."
"And I know how to, Bachka," and he instantly started droning at full speed.
What could you do with such an artist? How could you argue with such a man, who in every way was your superior; he knew more about baptism than I did, and how many times one could be baptized, he was learned in names, and knew how to snore, and I did not know how to—in everything he had the advantage—he must be given all due honour and precedence.
I drew back from him as far as I could, and a little to the side, and with difficulty getting my hand under my cassock, pressed my repeater; the watch struck only three and three-quarters.
