Captain Nikolin was a malicious, small-minded man, always on the look-out for ways of annoying the prisoners; and now, on the pretence that he had not a strong enough force of gendarmes to supervise the “colony,” he asked that instead of releasing all who were entitled to the privilege, only fifteen persons at a time should be set free. His excuse was groundless, for under the circumstances the same force of gendarmes could have equally well controlled the greater or smaller number of “colonists”; but of course the wish of the commandant was acceded to, and it thus came about that those who should have obtained the right of living outside the prison had often to wait years until there was a vacancy, and even then there might be a dozen candidates for it, from among whom Nikolin arbitrarily selected a recipient of the favour. Of course this curtailment of their rights earned Nikolin the ardent dislike of the prisoners; and his conduct was such as continually to aggravate that sentiment anew. I had an opportunity of seeing this man soon after being placed under his charge. He often came into the prison—into the corridor, that is, for he never entered the rooms. He might have been nearly fifty-five, rather big, with an imposing “corporation”; his broad round face, cunning little eyes, and bristling moustache, gave him the look of a fat, spiteful old tom-cat, and he was always designated by that nickname. The expression of his eyes was particularly catlike; he looked as if just ready to pounce on a victim and stick his claws into it. He always spoke in a low voice, this “tom-cat”; but he chattered unceasingly, and kept smacking his lips all the time, his expression being always peevish and discontented. When he visited the prison he generally remained for some time standing by our _stàrosta_, who would be busy beside his big chest; and Nikolin would talk away, quite regardless whether his conversation were agreeable to the listener or not. During these endless monologues he would brag and boast in the most inflated way. Could we have accepted his own account of his exploits, he would by this time have been at least a general. He had begun his career during the sixties under Mouravièv, the oppressor of Vilna, and he would recount the inestimable services he had rendered at that epoch. Yet he was still only a captain! Possibly an excess of zeal had spoiled his prospects; at any rate, he used to relate the following story of what had happened to him in Kara. He had once addressed a communication to the governor of the province, asking this highly important question: “When the floor of a room was being scrubbed, and the prisoners were consequently turned out into the corridor, should the warder take them into another room or not?”