“I also am of that opinion,” said Ivan Matvyèich; “but without an economic remuneration it is hard, in our age of financial crisis, to rip open the belly of a crocodile, and, nevertheless, we are confronted with the inevitable question: What will the owner take for his crocodile? With this there is also another question: Who is to pay? For you know I have not the means.” “Couldn’t you get your salary in advance?”... I began, timidly; but the German instantly interrupted— “I not sell ze crocodile. I tree tausend sell ze crocodile, I four tausend sell ze crocodile! Now shall mush publikum come. I fife tausend sell ze crocodile!” In a word, he carried it with a high hand; avarice and greed shone triumphantly in his eyes. “I will go!” I cried, indignantly. “And I! And I, too! I will go to Andrey Osìpych himself—I will move him with my tears!” wailed Elyòna Ivànovna. “Don’t do that, my dear,” hastily interrupted Ivan Matvyèich, who had long been jealous of Andrey Osìpych’s admiration of his wife, and knew that she was glad of a chance to weep before a man of refinement, as tears became her very well. “And you, my friend,” he continued, addressing me, “you had better go to Timofèy Semyònych. And now take away Elyòna Ivànovna.... Be calm, my love,” he added to her. “I am tired with all this noise and feminine quarrelling, and wish to take a little nap. It is warm and soft here, though I have not yet had time to look about me in this unexpected refuge.” “Look about you! Is there any light there?” cried Elyòna Ivànovna in delight. “I am surrounded by impenetrable darkness,” answered the poor captive; “but I can feel, and, so to say, look about me with my hands. Good-bye! Be calm, and do not deny yourself recreation. You, Semyòn Semyònich, come back to me this evening, and, as you are absent-minded and may forget, tie a knot in your handkerchief.” The respectable Timofèy Semyònych received me in a hurried and, as it were, somewhat embarrassed manner. He took me into his little study and carefully shut the door: “So that the children shan’t disturb us,” as he explained with evident anxiety. He then placed me in a seat by the writing-table, sat down in an armchair, gathered up the tails of his old wadded dressing-gown, and put on an official, even severe expression, although he was not in authority over either Ivan Matvyèich or myself, but simply an acquaintance and fellow-official. “First of all,” he began, “remember that I am not an authority; I am a mere subordinate, like yourself or Ivan Matvyèich. I am an outsider, and do not intend to mix myself up with anything.” He evidently knew all, much to my astonishment. However, I told him the whole story over again, with all details. I spoke with emotion, for at that moment I was fulfilling the duty of a true friend. He listened without any great surprise, but with evident suspiciousness. “Just imagine,” he said, when I had done; “I always expected that this very thing would happen to him.”