The roll was about to be called, for it was already late. The prisoners were hurrying towards the kitchen. They had to put on their pelisses, and were to receive in their bi-coloured caps the bread which one of the cooks--one of the bakers, that is to say--was distributing among them. These cooks, like those who did the household work, were chosen by the prisoners themselves. There were two for the kitchen, making four in all for the convict prison. They had at their disposal the only kitchen-knife authorised in the prison, which was used for cutting up the bread and meat. The prisoners arranged themselves in groups around the tables as best they could in caps and pelisses, with leather girdles round their waists, all ready to begin work. Some of the convicts had kvas before them, in which they steeped pieces of bread. The noise was insupportable. Many of the convicts, however, were talking together in corners with a steady, tranquil air. “Good-morning and good appetite, Father Antonitch,” said a young prisoner, sitting down by the side of an old man, who had lost his teeth. “If you are not joking, well, good-morning,” said the latter, without raising his eyes, and endeavouring to masticate a piece of bread with his toothless gums. “I declare I fancied you were dead, Antonitch.” “Die first, I will follow you.” I sat down beside them. On my right two convicts were conversing with an attempt at dignity. “I am not likely to be robbed,” said one of them. “I am more afraid of stealing myself.” “It would not be a good idea to rob me. The devil! I should pay the man out.” “But what would you do, you are only a convict? We have no other name. You will see that she will rob you, the wretch, without even saying, ‘Thank you.’ The money I gave her was wasted. Just fancy, she was here a few days ago! Where were we to go? Shall I ask permission to go into the house of Theodore, the executioner? He has still his house in the suburb, the one he bought from that Solomon, you know, that scurvy Jew who hung himself not long since.” “Yes, I know him, the one who sold liquor here three years ago, and who was called Grichka--the secret-drinking shop.” “I know.” “_All_ brag. You don’t know. In the first place it is another drinking shop.” “What do you mean, another? You don’t know what you are talking about. I will bring you as many witnesses as you like.” “Oh, you will bring them, will you? Who are you? Do you know to whom you are speaking?” “Yes, indeed.” “I have often thrashed you, though I don’t boast of it. Do not give yourself airs then.” “You have thrashed me? The man who will thrash me is not yet born; and the man who did thrash me is six feet beneath the ground.” “Plague-stricken rascal of Bender?” “May the Siberian leprosy devour you with ulcers!” “May a chopper cleave your dog of a head.” Insults were falling about like rain.