“I was not with you, but I know that you are having a feast,” exclaimed a tall convict who now came in. He was a man of about fifty years, thin and muscular. His face indicated cunning, and, at the same time, liveliness. His lower lip, fleshy and pendant, gave him a soft expression. “Well, have you slept well? Why don’t you say how do you do? Well, now my friends of Kursk,” he said, sitting down by the side of the feasters, “good appetite? Here’s a new guest for you.” “We are not from the province of Kursk.” “Then my friends from Tambof, let me say?” “We are not from Tambof either. You have nothing to claim from us; if you want to enjoy yourself go to some rich peasant.” “I have Maria Ikotishna [from “ikot,” hiccough] in my belly, otherwise I should die of hunger. But where is your peasant to be found?” “Good heavens! we mean Gazin; go to him.” “Gazin is on the drink to-day, he’s devouring his capital.” “He has at least twenty roubles,” says another convict. “It is profitable to keep a drinking shop.” “You won’t have me? Then I must eat the Government food.” “Will you have some tea? If so, ask these noblemen for some.” “Where do you see any noblemen? They’re noblemen no longer. They’re not a bit better than us,” said in a sombre voice a convict who was seated in the corner, who hitherto had not risked a word. “I should like a cup of tea, but I am ashamed to ask for it. I have self-respect,” said the convict with the heavy lip, looking at me with a good-humoured air. “I will give you some if you like,” I said. “Will you have some?” “What do you mean--will I have some? Who would not have some?” he said, coming towards the table. “Only think! When he was free he ate nothing but cabbage soup and black bread, but now he is in prison he must have tea like a perfect gentleman,” continued the convict with the sombre air. “Does no one here drink tea?” I asked him; but he did not think me worthy of a reply. “White rolls, white rolls; who’ll buy?” A young prisoner was carrying in a net a load of calachi (scones), which he proposed to sell in the prison. For every ten that he sold, the baker gave him one for his trouble. It was precisely on this tenth scone that he counted for his dinner. “White rolls, white rolls,” he cried, as he entered the kitchen, “white Moscow rolls, all hot. I would eat the whole of them, but I want money, lots of money. Come, lads, there is only one left for any of you who has had a mother.” This appeal to filial love made every one laugh, and several of his white rolls were purchased. “Well,” he said, “Gazin has drunk in such a style, it is quite a sin. He has chosen a nice moment too. If the man with the eight eyes should arrive--we shall hide him.” “Is he very drunk?” “Yes, and ill-tempered too--unmanageable.” “There will be some fighting, then?” “Whom are they speaking of?” I said to the Pole, my neighbour.