“No, Stepka, you lie,” continues his friend, taking up a glass offered to him by the drink-seller. “You owe me money, and you must be without conscience. You have not a thing about you that you have not borrowed, and I don’t believe your very eyes are your own. In a word, Stepka, you are a blackguard.” “What are you whining about? Look, you are spilling your vodka.” “If you are being treated, why don’t you drink?” cries the drink-seller, to the expansive friend. “I cannot wait here until to-morrow.” “I will drink, don’t be frightened. What are you crying out about? My best wishes for the day. My best wishes for the day, Stepan Doroveitch,” replies the latter politely, as he bows, glass in hand, towards Stepka, whom the moment before he had called a blackguard. “Good health to you, and may you live a hundred years in addition to what you have lived already.” He drinks, gives a grunt of satisfaction, and wipes his mouth. “What quantities of brandy I have drunk,” he says, gravely speaking to every one, without addressing any one in particular, “but I have finished now. Thank me, Stepka Doroveitch.” “There is nothing to thank you for.” “Ah! you won’t thank me. Then I will tell every one how you have treated me, and, moreover, that you are a blackguard.” “Then I shall have something to tell you, drunkard that you are,” interrupts Stepka, who at last loses patience. “Listen and pay attention. Let us divide the world in two. You shall take one half, I the other. Then I shall have peace.” “Then you will not give me back my money?” “What money do you want, drunkard?” “My money. It is the sweat of my brow; the labour of my hands. You will be sorry for it in the other world. You will be roasted for those five kopecks.” “Go to the devil.” “What are you driving me for? Am I a horse?” “Be off, be off.” “Blackguard!” “Convict!” And the insults exchanged were worse than they had been before the visit to the drink-seller. Two friends are seated separately on two camp-bedsteads. One is tall, vigorous, fleshy, with a red face--a regular butcher. He is on the point of weeping; for he has been much moved. The other is tall, thin, conceited, with an immense nose, which always seems to have a cold, and little blue eyes fixed upon the ground. He is a clever, well-bred man, and was formerly a secretary. He treats his friend with a little disdain, which the latter cannot stand. They have been drinking together all day. “You have taken a liberty with me,” cries the stout one, as with his left hand he shakes the head of his companion. To take a liberty signifies, in convict language, to strike. This convict, formerly a non-commissioned officer, envies in secret the elegance of his neighbour, and endeavours to make up for his material grossness by refined conversation. “I tell you, you are wrong,” says the secretary, in a dogmatic tone, with his eyes obstinately fixed on the ground, and without looking at his companion.