And in an instant the whole crowd began to sing words of a proud, melancholy, revolutionary song. The Cossacks looked on morosely. The command was given. The Cossacks quickly mounted their horses. The singing stopped abruptly. * * * * * Once outside the cemetery gates, Elisaveta said: “I am hungry!” “Let’s go to my place,” suggested Trirodov. “Thank you,” said Elisaveta. “But I’d rather go to some tavern.” Trirodov looked at her in astonishment, but made no objection. He understood her curiosity. The tavern was crowded and noisy. Trirodov and Elisaveta sat down near the window, at a small table covered with a dirty, spotted cloth. They ordered cold meat and light beer. At one of the tables, a young man in a red shirt sat drinking. He was in a boastful mood. Behind his ear stuck a cigarette. The fellow intruded upon his neighbours, and shouted: “Who’s drunk?” “Well, who?” asked a young working man at the next table contemptuously. “I am drunk!” exclaimed the drunkard in the red shirt. “And who am I, do you know, eh?” “Yes, who are you? What sort of a bird are you?” asked the young working man in the black calico blouse derisively. “I am Borodulin!” said the drunkard, and there was an expression on his face as if he had pronounced a famous name. His neighbours roared with laughter, and shouted coarse, derisive words. The fellow in the red shirt cried angrily: “What do you think? Is Borodulin, in your opinion, a peasant?” The working man in the black blouse began to get annoyed. His lean cheeks grew red. He sprang from his place, and shouted angrily: “Well, who are you? Answer.” “I’m a peasant on my passport. An army reserve man. But that’s not all, I assure you,” said Borodulin. “Well, who then are you?” repeated the young working man angrily, as he took a step towards him. “And do you know what I am on my card? Can you guess?” asked Borodulin. He blinked, and tried to look important. The comrades of the young working man tried to dissuade him from pursuing his inquiries, and whispered as they drew him away: “Don’t waste your time on him. He’s a nobody.” “I’m a detective, that’s what I am!” said Borodulin with his important air. The working man in the black blouse spat contemptuously and walked back to his table. Borodulin went on: “You think I’m out of my senses. No, old chap, you’re mistaken. I’m an experienced man. What do you think of me now? I’m a detective. I can arrest any one!” The men at the neighbouring tables listened to him and exchanged glances. Borodulin went on boasting. “Suppose I put the police on to you?” asked a merchant at one of the middle tables angrily. His small black eyes sparkled. Borodulin burst out laughing, and shouted: “I have the police in the hollow of my hand. That’s where I have them.” The customers grumbled. Threats were heard: “You’d better go away while you’re still whole.”