And the priest, too, wants me to work for him. I owe him a lot for baptism and funerals. Well, is that nonsense? 'Your Honor,' says I to the Lord, 'I live worse than a bird. Every crow in the woods has at least a nest of its own, and I haven't even that. I'm living in my brother's house. And when he comes home from the army, he'll want it for himself. Then I'll have to live in the street, with my little children . . . I'm just a cuckoo without a nest, your Honor!' I thought I'd get him jolly if I'd say that."
"And what did he say?"
"He laughed . . . 'Yes, I see that you're a bird, and a foolish one at that. Worse than a crow. You can't live here without aid, and how do you expect to go to Siberia? Why, the wolves will eat you up on the way. No, I won't let you. Just throw that nonsense out of your head. I've got a firm character. Won't let you.'"
Another violent fit of coughing seized the little peasant, and shook his whole emaciated frame.
"Yes ... 'I got a . . . firm character,' he says," continued he through his coughing. "'Never. Just throw that nonsense out of your head. I'll have my way about it.' So the lord says to me, and I think to myself, 'So? All right! But you won't go to the priest to work for me!'—So quietly I got my things together and slipped out of the village one dark night."
The peasant suddenly cut off his narrative and rushed on through the car. He had heard from the neighboring compartment the magic words:
"The controller is coming!"
III.
The peasant was tossing about the car, rushing from the window to the door, and then to another window. Under the bench on which sat the lady with the book, there was some baggage, but there was just enough room for the peasant to hide his thin body. He fell on his knees before the lady, and begged in a broken whisper:
"Your Honor, won't you let me get under the bench?"
The lady was so startled that she dropped her book, and cried out:
"Oh, Oh! Who's that? What is it?"
"Lady! Your Honor! . . . They're coming!"
"Get out of here! What do you want?"
"Lady! Please let the poor man . . . There won't be any harm done . . . Just quietly . . . Lady ! . . ."
"Here, conductor!" suddenly shouted the lady.
The peasant rushed away, then came back again and fell on his knees once more. As though trying to touch her with the word, he said, looking at her beseechingly:
"Please, madam!"
At this, the dark official burst out laughing, and pronounced the magic word, as he removed a large suit-case from under his bench:
