The next scene introduces us to the servant of the supposed functionary, who is no Reviseur at all, but a poor gentleman who is running away from St. Petersburg, on account of certain bills which he has not the means of paying. The miserable lodging, and the hungry lamentations of the unlucky servant, give us to understand the state of his master’s finances, that he has actually expended the very last of his cherished rubles, nor does there appear to be any probability of his purse being replenished: how they will be enabled to continue the journey is a _casse-tête_. Thereupon the master himself enters, and, being quite as famished as his man, orders him to go and get something for dinner, for it appears he has been to an eating-house, and they refused to give him credit. The servant refuses to go without the money. At last, with the help of a great deal of blustering, he is persuaded to “try his luck:” he soon returns; he has been successful in some measure, for he is accompanied by the boy from the cook-shop, who has brought two dishes and—_the bill_. The savoury smell of the soup and beef drives the hungry pair almost mad, but the purse, unlike that of Fortunatus, is as empty as their stomachs, and, unless the boy gets the money, he is ordered by no means to leave the dinner. Now, here was a dreadful dilemma; but in the midst of it the police-master arrives: the distressed traveller is in fearful trouble, for he is convinced that the dreaded officer is come to arrest him; “he has doubtless heard of his flight from St. Petersburg, and has received orders to take him prisoner.” The police-master, on his side, is equally sure that he is in the presence of the real Reviseur, but that he travels thus in disguise that he may take them unawares, and so detect their numerous acts of dishonesty and corruption: consequently, a most laughable dialogue ensues—the official trembles as he addresses the supposed great man, and is ready to cringe in the dust at his feet. At last the latter begins to see “which way the wind blows,” and, perceiving to what profit he may turn the mistake, informs the other as a very great secret that he is really the Reviseur, and compliments him on his extreme penetration, which alone could have discovered him under such a disguise. No sooner has he done so than the police-master slips an excessively heavy purse into his hand, the contents of which have been furnished by himself and the other chief government officers, to blind his eyes, and to act as golden spectacles. Here the boy from the cook-shop re-enters to be paid for the dinner; the traveller takes out his newly-acquired riches, and is on the point of paying for it, when the police-master politely interferes, and orders the boy to put it down “to his account;” the latter casts a terrified look at the two, and, seeing what a powerful friend his customer has acquired, rushes off in extreme dismay. The official, then turning to the traveller, expresses