So it went on for about a year and a half; and my wife and I thought we’d build a house for ourselves in the main-town.[52]... Because, you see, our children were growing up, and we had to put them to school. We wanted to do the best for them, and we’re not badly off; thanks be to God, we’ve money to pay with. We thought and thought it over, and at last we went to the town, and bought a bit of land, and started building. I used to go into town to see after the building, sometimes for three days at a time, sometimes for five. I often used to go into Moscow to buy materials. The main-town is on the railway, and only eighty versts from Moscow; it isn’t more than three hours in the train, so I found it cheaper to buy what I wanted in Moscow—nails and cramp-irons and all such things—for the house. Well, one day I was going into Moscow for things, and who should I meet in the train but my apothecary.... ‘Ah! it’s you, old fellow! How do you come here? Where have you been? Where are you going?’... We were right glad to meet again. Well, we got talking, of course; he told me about his affairs, and I told him about mine. He’d been in some other town, and hadn’t got on there either; and now he was going to Moscow. Then of course I told him how we were building a house. And after a bit we got talking of my illness. So I said to him: ‘For the Lord’s sake,’ says I, ‘help me like a good fellow; little father, give me some more pills! I’m half killed.’ ‘All right,’ says he, ‘if you like. When we get to Moscow,’ says he, ‘I’ll go into a chemist’s and get all the things, and make the pills at home, and give them to you.’ So we arranged where we were to meet. ‘Come to the Patrìkyevsky Tavern,’ says he, ‘the day after to-morrow. We’ll have some cabbage salad together, and talk over old times; and I’ll give you the pills.’ So that was all right....” The narrative was interrupted for a moment by the entrance of the young fellow who had just told about the manslaughter. He came running nimbly down the steps and stopped at the door. “What do you want?” asked the steward. “Nothing; I just came.” “I suppose you were beaten at cards?” “I’ll beat them some day,” answered the lad, leaning against the lintel of the door, and rubbing one bare foot against the other.