"I suppose you'll say a little word on our behalf, eh?" remarked the Sotsky with a smile. "I may." "Oh--ai!" "What do you mean?" "You're a joker. He'll pepper you finely." "Flog me, eh?" "He's cruel! And quick to box one's ears, and at any rate you'll leave him a little groggy on your pins." "Well, well, we'll make it all right with him," said the prisoner confidently, at the same time giving his escort a friendly tap on the shoulder. This familiarity did not please Efimushka. At any rate he, after all, was the person in authority, and this blockhead ought not to have forgotten that Efimushka carried his copper plaque of office on his bosom. Efimushka rose to his feet, took up his stick, drew forth his plaque, let it hang openly on the middle of his breast, and said, severely: "Stand up! Let's be off!" "I'm not going," said the prisoner. Efimushka was flabbergasted. Screwing up his eyes he was silent for a moment, not understanding why this prisoner should suddenly have taken to jesting. "Come, don't make a pother, let's be going!" he said somewhat more softly. "I am not going," repeated the prisoner emphatically. "Why not?" shrieked Efimushka, full of rage and amazement. "Because I want to pass the night here with you. Come! let us light a fire!" "I let you pass the night here? I light a fire here by your side, eh? A pretty thing, indeed!" growled Efimushka Yet at the bottom of his soul he was amazed. The man had said: I won't go! but had shown no signs of opposition, no disposition to quarrel, but simply lay down on the ground and that was all. What was to be the end of it? "Don't make a row, Efim!" advised the prisoner coolly. Efimushka was again silent, and, shifting from leg to leg as he stood over the prisoner, regarded him with wide-open eyes. And the latter kept looking at him and looking at him and smiling. Efimushka fell a pondering as to what he ought to be doing next. And how was it that this vagabond, who had been so surly and sullen all along, should all at once have become so gentle? Wouldn't it be as well to fall upon him, twist his arms, give him a couple of whacks on the neck, and so put an end to all this nonsense? And with as severely an official tone as he could command, Efimushka said: "Come, you rascal, stir your stumps! Get up, I say! And I tell you this, I'll make you trot along then, never fear! Do you understand? Very well! Look! I am about to strike." "Strike _me?_" asked the prisoner with a smile. "Yes, you; what are you thinking about, eh?" "What! would you, Efimushka Gruizlov, strike me, Vic Tuchkov?" "Alas! you are a little wide of the mark, you are," cried Efimushka in astonishment; "but who are you, really? What sort of game is this?" "Don't screech so, Efimushka! It is about time you recognised me, I think," said the prisoner, smiling quietly and regaining his feet; "how do you find yourself, eh?"