"What's your name?" asked Tchelkache.
"Gavrilo," replied the lad.
When they had entered the dirty and smoky ale-house Tchelkache went up
to the bar and ordered, in the familiar tone of a regular customer, a
bottle of brandy, cabbage soup, roast beef and tea, and, after
enumerating the order, said briefly: "to be charged!" To which the boy
responded by a silent nod. At this, Gavrilo was filled with great
respect for his master, who, despite his knavish exterior, was so well
known and treated with so much confidence.
"There, let us eat a bite, and talk afterward. Wait for me an instant,
I will be back directly."
He went out. Gavrilo looked around him. The ale-house was in a
basement; it was damp and dark and reeking with tobacco smoke, tar and
a musty odor. In front of Gavrilo, at another table, was a drunken
sailor, with a red beard, all covered with charcoal and tar. He was
humming, interrupted by frequent hiccoughs, a fragment of a song very
much out of tune. He was evidently not a Russian.
Behind him were two ragged women from Moldavia, black-haired and
sun-burned; they were also grinding out a song.
Further on, other faces started out from the darkness, all dishevelled,
half drunk, writhing, restless.
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