onov and Sobashnikov
long served as a subject of conversation. The reporter, in cases like
this, always felt shame, uneasiness, regret and the torments of
conscience. And despite the fact that all those who remained were on
his side, he was speaking with weariness in his voice:

"By God, gentlemen! I'll go away, best of all. Why should I disrupt
your circle? We were both at fault. I'll go away. Don't bother about
the bill. I've already paid Simeon, when I was going after Pasha."

Lichonin suddenly rumpled up his hair and stood up

"Oh, no, the devil take it! I'll go and drag him here. Upon my word of
honour, they're both fine fellows--Boris as well as Vaska. But they're
young yet, and bark at their own tails. I'm going after them, and I
warrant that Boris will apologize."

He went away, but came back after five minutes.

"They repose," said he, sombrely, and made a hopeless gesture with his
hand. "Both of them."

CHAPTER XI.

At this moment Simeon walked into the cabinet with a tray upon which
stood two goblets of a bubbling golden wine and lay a large visiting
card.

"May I ask which of you here might be Mister Gavrila Petrovich
Yarchenko?" he said, looking over all those sitting.

"I," responded Yarchenko.

"If youse please. The actor gent sent this."

Yarchenko took the visiting card and read aloud:

Eumenii Poluectovich
EGMONT--LAVRETZKI
Dramatic Artist of Metropolitan Theatres

"It's remarkable," said Volodya Pavlov, "that all the Russian Garricks
bear such queer names, on the style of Chrysantov, Thetisov, Mamontov
and Epimhakov."

"And besides that, the best known of them must needs either speak
thickly, or lisp, or stammer," added the reporter.

"Yes, but most remarkable of all is the fact that I do not at all have
the honour of knowing this artist of the metropolitan theatres.
However, there's something else written on the reverse of this card.
Judging by the handwriting, it was written by a man greatly drunk and
little lettered.

"'I dreenk'--not drink, but dreenk," explained Yarchenko. "'I dreenk to
the health of the luminary of Russian science, Gavrila Petrovich
Yarchenko, whom I saw by chance when I was passing by through the
collidor. Would like to clink glasses together personally. If you do
not remember, recollect the National Theatre, Poverty Is No Disgrace,
and the humble artist who played African.' Yes, that's right," said
Yarchenko. "Once, somehow, they saddled me