h--his probable motive being a desire to leave behind him
the reputation of a wise old man.

In his shanty are three windows facing on to the street, and a
partition-wall which divides it into two rooms of unequal size. In the
larger room, which contains a Russian stove, he himself lives; in the
smaller room I have my abode. By a passage the two are separated from a
storeroom where, closeted behind a door to which there are a heavy,
old-fashioned bolt and many iron and brass screws, Antipa preserves
pledges left by his neighbours, such as samovars, ikons, winter
clothing and the like. Of this storeroom he always carries the great
indentated key at the back of the strap which upholds his cloth
breeches; and, whenever the police call to ascertain whether he is
harbouring any stolen goods, a long time ensues whilst he is shifting
the key round to his stomach, and again a long time whilst he is
unfastening it from the belt. Meanwhile, he says pompously to the
Superintendent or the Deputy Superintendent:

"Never do I take in goods of that kind. Of the truth of what I say,
your honour, you have more than once assured yourself in person."

Also, whenever Antipa sits down the key rattles against the back or the
seat of his chair; whereupon he bends his arm with difficulty, and
feels to see whether or not the key has come unslung. This I know for
the reason that the partition-wall is not so thick but that I can hear
his every breath drawn, and divine his every movement.

Of an evening, when the misty sun is slanting across the river towards
the auburn belt of pines, and distilling pink vapours from the sombre
vista to be seen through the shaggy mouth of the ravine, Antipa
Vologonov sets out a squat samovar that is dinted of side, and plated
with green oxide on handle, turncock, and spout. Then he seats himself
at his table by the window.

At intervals I hear the evening stillness broken by questions put in a
tone which implies always an expectation of a precise answer.

"Where is Darika?"

"He has gone to the spring for water." The answer is given whiningly,
and in a thin voice.

"And how is your sister?

"Still in pain."

"Yes? Well, you can go now."

Giving a slight cough to clear his throat, the old man begins to sing
in a quavering falsetto:

Once a bullet smote my breast,
And scarce the pang I felt.
But ne'er the pang could be express'd
Which love's flame since hath dealt!

As the samovar hisses a