"He is getting ready to die, and he takes the trouble to hitch up his trousers." The passengers all laughed loudly. It was perfectly plain that they did not think it probable that the soldier would really kill himself, nor did I think so; but Smouri, after one glance at him, pushed the people aside with his stomach, saying: "Get away, you fools!" He called them fools over and over again, and approaching one little knot of people, said: "To your place, fool!" This was funny; but, however, it seemed to-be true, for they had all been acting like one big fool from the first thing in the morning. When he had driven the passengers-off, he approached the soldier, and, holding out his hand, said: "Give me that knife." "I don't care," said the soldier, holding out the handle of the knife. The cook gave the knife to me, and pushed the soldier into the cabin. "Lie down and go to sleep. What is the matter with you, eh?" The soldier sat on a hammock in silence. "He shall bring you something to eat and some vodka. Do you drink vodka?" "A little sometimes." "But, look you, don't you touch him. It was not he who made fun of you, do you hear? I tell you that it was not he." "But why did they torment me?" asked the soldier, softly. Smouri answered gruffly after a pause: "How should I know?" As he came with me to the kitchen he muttered: "Well, they have fastened upon a poor wretch this time, and no mistake! You see what he is? There you are! My lad, people can be sent out of their minds; they can really. Stick to them like bugs, and the thing is done. In fact, there are some people here like bugs--worse than bugs!" When I took bread, meat, and vodka to the soldier he was still sitting in the hammock, rocking himself and crying softly, sobbing like a woman. I placed the plate on the table, saying: "Eat." "Shut the door." "That will make it dark." "Shut it, or they will come crawling in here." I went away. The sight of the soldier was unpleasant to me. He aroused my commiseration and pity and made me feel uncomfortable. Times without number grandmother had told me: "One must have pity on people. We are all unhappy. Life is hard for all of us." "Did you take it to him?" asked the cook. "Well, how is he--the soldier?" "I feel sorry for him." "Well, what's the matter now, eh?" "One can't help being sorry for people." Smouri took me by the arm, drew me to him, and said: "You do not pity in vain, but it is waste of time to chatter about it. When you are not accustomed to mix jellies, you must teach yourself the way." And pushing me away from him, he added gruffly: "This is no place for you. Here, smoke."