He attracted attention by the strange protuberances with which his skull was covered. He pushed against another convict round and small, with a lively rubicund countenance. “Just wait.” “What are you crying out about? You know that a fine must be paid when the others are kept waiting. Off with you. What a monument, my brethren!” “A little calf,” he went on muttering. “See, the white bread of the prison has fattened him.” “For what do you take yourself? A fine bird, indeed.” “You are about right.” “What bird do you mean?” “You don’t require to be told.” “How so?” “Find out.” They devoured one another with their eyes. The little man, waiting for a reply, with clenched fists, was apparently ready to fight. I thought that an encounter would take place. It was all quite new to me; accordingly I watched the scene with curiosity. Later on I learnt that such quarrels were very innocent, that they served for entertainment. Like an amusing comedy, it scarcely ever ended in blows. This characteristic plainly informed me of the manners of the prisoners. The tall prisoner remained calm and majestic. He felt that some answer was expected from him, if he was not to be dishonoured, covered with ridicule. It was necessary for him to show that he was a wonderful bird, a personage. Accordingly, he cast a side look on his adversary, endeavouring, with inexpressible contempt, to irritate him by looking at him over his shoulders, up and down, as he would have done with an insect. At last the little fat man was so irritated that he would have thrown himself upon his adversary had not his companions surrounded the combatants to prevent a serious quarrel from taking place. “Fight with your fists, not with your tongues,” cried a spectator from a corner of the room. “No, hold them,” answered another, “they are going to fight. We are fine fellows, one against seven is our style.” Fine fighting men! One was here for having sneaked a pound of bread, the other is a pot-stealer; he was whipped by the executioner for stealing a pot of curdled milk from an old woman. “Enough, keep quiet,” cried a retired soldier, whose business it was to keep order in the barrack, and who slept in a corner of the room on a bedstead of his own. “Water, my children, water for Nevalid Petrovitch, water for our little brother, who has just woke up.” “Your brother! Am I your brother? Did we ever drink a roublesworth of spirits together?” muttered the old soldier as he passed his arms through the sleeves of his great-coat.