“What should be done with the enemies of the Tsar and the Fatherland?” asked Kerbakh. “They should be destroyed!” answered the boy alertly. “And afterwards?” continued his father. The boy quickly repeated the words he had studied: “And afterwards the foul corpses of the vile enemies of the Fatherland should be thrown on the dunghill.” Kerbakh and Zherbenev laughed gleefully. “That describes them--foul carrion, that’s what they are!” said Zherbenev in a hoarse voice. A new-comer at the next table, a stranger apparently to those present, was giving an order for a bottle of beer. Of middle age and medium height, he was stout, or rather flabby; he had small glittering eyes; and his dress had seen much wear. Kerbakh and Zherbenev gave him an occasional passing glance, not of a very friendly nature. As though they took it for granted that the stranger held antagonistic views, they increased the vehemence of their speeches and spoke more and more furiously of agitators and of Little Mother Russia, and mentioned, by the way, a number of local undesirables, Trirodov among them. The new-comer scrutinized the two speakers for a long time. It was evident that the name of Trirodov, often repeated in Kerbakh’s remarks, aroused an intense interest, even agitation, in the stranger. His fixed scrutiny of his two neighbours at last attracted their attention and they exchanged annoyed glances. Then the stranger ventured to join in their conversation. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “unless I am mistaken, you were speaking of Mr. Trirodov--am I right?” “My dear sir, you....” began Kerbakh. The new-comer immediately jumped to his feet and began to apologize profusely. “May I impose upon your good nature to forgive my impertinent curiosity. I am Ostrov, the actor--tragedian. You may have heard of me?” “For the first time,” said Kerbakh surlily. “I’ve never heard the name,” said Zherbenev. The stranger smiled pleasantly, as if he had been commended, and continued to speak without showing the slightest embarrassment: “Well--er--I’ve played in many cities. I’m just passing through here. I’m on my way to attend to some personal business in the Rouban Government. And you just happened to mention a name very familiar to me.” Kerbakh and Zherbenev exchanged glances. Malignant thoughts about Trirodov again took possession of their minds. Ostrov continued: “I had no suspicion that Trirodov lived here. He is a very old and intimate acquaintance of mine. I might say we are friends.” “So-o,” said Zherbenev severely, glancing at Ostrov with disapproval. Something in Ostrov’s voice and manner aroused their antagonism. His glance was certainly impudent. Indeed his words and his whole demeanour were provokingly arrogant. But it was impossible to be rude with him. His words were proper enough in themselves. “We haven’t met for some years,” Ostrov went on. “How does he manage to get on?”