The innkeeper’s astonishment knew no bounds. My not having heard of the Amorphists, of free law, or freemasons, he quite understood, but Michael Ivanovitch! That was too much. Everybody knew Michael Ivanovitch. “He is the assistant of the Police Inspector,” he said, with an air of patient pity. “They settled to kill him. Lots were drawn, and Vasili, Paul, and Trafim were chosen to kill him--Vasili the floor-cleaner, Paul the stone-mason, and Trafim the stove-maker.” (He now gave explanations unasked, as one does to small children.) “So Vasili, Paul, and Trafim went off to buy a bomb at the Apothecary’s opposite--he is cunning in the making of bombs. They bought a bomb, and they then went to make the attempt. Vasili and Paul were chosen to act, Trafim was to keep guard. It was he who told the story afterwards. They went and sat on a seat in the big street here (it was quite deserted at this hour), along which they knew Michael Ivanovitch would pass at five minutes to six, since he passed that way every night on his way to dinner. But Heaven knows why! Michael Ivanovitch was late; it was cold, dark, and drizzly, a fine rain was falling, and on Paul, Vasili, and Trafim, as they waited, a great tediousness descended. At last Paul asked Vasili if he had ever been to the Circus. Vasili said he had never been to the Circus. Paul said Vasili knew nothing of anything, and that he for his part had been to the Circus often, and that it was a fine sight. There was a maiden, beautiful as the day, glittering with spangles, who stood on a horse, and leapt through a paper hoop, and alighted once more on the horse. Then there was a Chinaman, a real Chinaman with a big pigtail, who spun a pail of water on his finger. There was also a clown who threw a great golden ball into the air and caught it on his nose as easily as a trout catches a fly. ‘Yes,’ said Vasili, ‘I know how that is done; I can do it myself. You throw the ball up like this,’ and he made a gesture. ‘Fool!’ said Paul, ‘thou knowest nothing at all. May the soul of thy mother be vexed! He does it like this,’ and suiting the action to the word he lightly threw the bomb which he was holding in his left hand into the air. The bomb exploded, Paul was blown to bits, and Vasili was left a mangled heap. “Trafim, who was only wounded, was very angry, and after taking from the mangled corpse of Vasili a Browning pistol, saying, ‘It is no use wasting twenty-four roubles,’ he went straight to the Apothecary who had sold him the bomb. ‘Scoundrel,’ he said, ‘what sort of goods do you sell? And you even dared to boast. Melinite! Melinite! Here is Melinite for you! It goes off before it is meant to. You do not know how to make a simple bomb. Cheat! Rascal!’ “‘Who says I don’t know how to make bombs?’ said the Apothecary, wounded in his professional pride.