THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME
"Will you pay, you Kazan and Astrakhan correspondent? Eh? Has your ugly face any conscience left?"
Moshkin stopped before her, stretched out in front of her his empty hand, and said expressively:
"All that I have."
He didn't say a word about the last-left three-rouble note which he had in his pocket, as yet unspent. The landlady boiled over:
"I'm not the wife of an officer of hussars: money's necessary to me. How will I get seven roubles' worth of wood? If you don't keep yourself you're just a spending machine. Dear me, a man with abilities too, a young man, and a sufficiently charming exterior. You can find some one else to put you up. But how can I? No matter what you turn to, out flies the money. Blow—a rouble, spit—a rouble, die—a hundred and fifty."
Moshkin walked up to her and said:
"Don't alarm yourself, Prascovia Petrovna, this evening I shall receive a post and will settle up."
And once more he commenced his march, shuffling in his slippers.
The landlady stood grumbling for some time, and at last went out crying:
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